


Gods and Monsters

by Pegacorn



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Depression, Explicit Sexual Content, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Older Man/Younger Man, Physical Abuse, Sex Tapes, Suicide attempt mentioned, Tentacles, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-07-02
Packaged: 2018-05-10 19:57:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 22
Words: 92,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5598862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pegacorn/pseuds/Pegacorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A reporter on a mission to expose a story that he cares about professionally and personally. A cancelled project raises questions and Miles' research leads him to a cattle ranch in the middle of Colorado where he meets a strange young man caring for his elderly grandfather. Will this be the break in the case Miles has waited for? Or will the unsolicited and inexplicable crush of the new acquaintance merely complicate Miles' life further. Between his unfulfilling job, impossible fight with Murkoff, and the hopeless situation with his best friend and one time lover, Miles already finds it hard to get dressed in the morning. Maybe some fresh, mountain air is the cure he needs...Not like things could get worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reporter-Man

**Author's Note:**

> Outlast AU, characters are changed. My brain is a hellscape of Outlast AUs so here's another one. Relationships were complicated so I was not sure how to tag them. Expect canon typical violence before the end.

Road hypnosis. It was a real thing. Driving through the open land of Colorado, Miles understood how it happened. Staring at the mountains in the distance, outlines against a gray sky, and passing nothing but one cow pasture after another, with a few small towns interspersed. Yeah, it was easy to see how someone could just zone out and operate on autopilot until arriving at their destination and remembering only that they had seen a whole load of jack shit.

The empty, forgettable, open nothingness...yeah, Miles thought that driving through Colorado was a lot like his life those days. His choices left him so alone and disappointed...it was easy to just close his eyes to the daily suffering until he would open them with no idea how he had fucked up so badly to get him to his current destination of loneliness and depression. Life hypnosis. 

No cars on the road. A glance in the mirror reminded Miles that he had not shaved in weeks. Brown hair badly in need of a trim fell to his eyebrows, but at least it helped obscure the scar on his forehead. The bags under his gray eyes may as well be considered permanent features at that point. Thirty-two was young to have given up on his appearance, but depression morphed even the slightest grooming effort into a monumental task.

The dark thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone. There was no hands free in his old, dented red jeep. Miles picked up the phone and hit accept, holding the device up to his ear like some kind of neanderthal.

“Upshur.”

“...I really don't care babe it's whatever you want to....Hey! Miles!” Just hearing that voice...

“Hey Park. What's new?”

“I have such good news,” said Waylon, and even over the phone Miles could hear the excitement in his voice. His friend was terrible at keeping his emotions in check. Miles could not help but smile imagining the excited grin that was surely splitting Waylon's face in that moment. His green eyes would be twinkling, and his pale cheeks pink with happiness...

“Don't invite that asshole,” mumbled a deep voice in the background on the other side of the phone. Waylon quickly shushed the other voice.

“I got it! I got the job. It's official. The final interview was today and they went ahead and hired me on the spot. I'm starting in two weeks as soon as I am done with my other job. I'm officially joining the information technology department at the University of Colorado at Denver! Can you believe it??”

“That's great Park. I'm really happy for you,” Miles said, sincerely. 

Waylon made an undecipherable happy noise that was so loud Miles needed to pull the phone away from his face for a moment. “Okay so we are going out tonight. Me and the guys from the bank and Eddie. It's a combination celebration-slash-going away party and you have to come. You have no choice. I'm going to get wasted, It'll be awesome.”

“You better not get too drunk. I don't want to have to replace my bath mat again after you throw up all over it like the last time,” came the deep voice again.

Waylon's voice became slightly muffled, as though covering the phone's receiver with his hand.“Okay not _that_ wasted, but I'm still celebrating. Aren't you happy for me?!” Waylon asked to the side.

“Of course, darling. I love you!” the voice answered.

“Aww...I know, I love you too Eddie,” Waylon finished his side conversation before uncovering the receiver and speaking back to Miles. “So you have no choice. I'll see you tonight okay? We'll be at the Crying Dog at eight and I got food poisoning from their quesadillas last time so I would highly recommend eating before hand and...”

“I can't make it. Sorry Park,” said Miles, tightening his grip on the steering wheel to vent his frustration while keeping his tone neutral.

“Awwwww,” Waylon pouted at the phone. “Boo Miles! You have to come. Just come okay?”

“I absolutely would if I could, but I'm not even in town. I'm driving right now actually,” said Miles.

“Where are you going? I didn't know you were leaving town,” Waylon protested.

“I know, sorry, I just got lead from that source with Murkoff again,” Miles said.

“Murkoff? Still?” Waylon groaned theatrically into the phone. “I thought you were moving on away from that...”

“Sorry. My reporter-sense was tingling. I had to check out this lead. I'm headed to Leadville...”

Waylon snorted at that. “Is that a real place or are you joking like, you got a lead so it's “Leed-ville.”

“No, it's a real place. I'm checking in on an address who might know more about that abandoned Project Walrider,” said Miles.

“Miles,” Waylon's voice turned softer and quieter, “this Murkoff thing isn't good for your health. I thought after the last...episode...you were going to stop worrying about Murkoff?”

“I was going to yeah. But then I got this lead, and then my...”

“Blah blah I know, reporters-sense, okay whatever Reporter-Man. Go check on your lead. But you are missing out on an awesome party because we are getting crazy at the Crying Dog tonight. Maybe when it turns out to be nothing you could drive back into town and get there before I'm passed out at the bar!”

“You better not be,” growled a warning on the other side of the phone.

“It's a joke Eddie. Calm down,” Waylon muttered.

“So what are you wearing?” Miles asked into the phone, shifting his grip to make it more comfortable to continue holding the phone while driving. There wasn't another car in sight on the long, two lane highway.

“My running t-shirt from last year's Turkey Trot, why?” Waylon said.

“Mmm.”

“Miles,” admonished Waylon, and the reporter just chuckled at his friend's discomfort.

“I miss you,” Miles said, his tone level and serious.

“We are going to miss you for sure,” Waylon said. 

“I won't,” Eddie quipped in the background. Miles rolled his eyes while driving. 

“Eddie,” shushed Waylon, “It won't be as much fun without you Miles. Eddie and I both feel that way.” A snort in the background. 

“No. Park, I miss you...your touch, your smell, the way you sound when you...”

“What did he say? Darling, your face is beet red,” Eddie accused. Miles chuckled. He felt guilty but also satisfied that he could still have that kind of effect on his friend.

“Well, I need to get off the phone,” Waylon said, hurriedly. “Drive carefully. And you really need to quit doing that.”

_Beep._

Miles sighed as the phone cut out. He dropped it onto the seat beside him in the jeep. A green road sign slowly loomed into view declaring that Leadville, Colorado was a mere ten miles away. Finally. He would have been excited about the dull journey coming to an end, if he had not been so miserable about the thoughts of missing an evening with his best friend.

Deep down, Miles knew how the night would develop. He would sulk about not getting enough time with Waylon, enter into a passive-aggressive argument with Eddie Gluskin, and then probably drink too much and wake up feeling even worse about his life. But something inside of him could not give up hope. Miles could not stop the dream that maybe, just maybe, Waylon would drink enough to become completely honest with himself and realize that Eddie was a terrible mistake and Miles was who he really loved. Waylon would come to him and confess and they would leave together and start over as lovers instead of friends...

Miles almost missed the exit sign for the small town because it was so faded. The address was not actually in the town itself and it was generous to call the tiny blip on the map a town at all. More like a stop over between larger towns where the local ranchers could meet up. The biggest buildings in the town were a giant red brick Baptist church and a huge auction house where cows were bought and sold every Monday. Even after extensive research, Miles was unprepared for how desolate the area was in the Spring. The snows were still clinging in some areas and the fields were barren and dead. The animals that were out eating from hay bales looked cold and miserable. Most were huddled beneath shelters with tin roofs and rotted wooden railings.

There was no service on his cell phone after he turned onto a small road with no center markings, barely wide enough for two cars. At one point, Miles came up behind a tractor and slowed down with an irritated grumble. He followed for almost two minutes before he realized that the man was trying to wave him around. Miles passed the tractor with a wave and continued on the way.

Miles squinted at the printed out Google map he had brought along in case of any malfunction with his cellphone's GPS. He missed the county road turn and had to do a quick u-turn in the middle of the road. It was easily accomplished considering he had not seen another car since turning, excluding the tractor. The following turn was an even smaller road sandwiched directly between wooden fences denoting different hilly ranch land identical except for the different types of fencing. The tires squealed as he spotted the next turn right as he was passing by and nearly flipped his jeep making the turn. The road was only gravel and he had to slow down considerably. Not that his jeep was in pristine condition, but he did not need to purposely dent it with careless driving. That damned jeep was the longest, best relationship in his sad life. She had to be protected. 

Soon, Miles was passing dirt roads, each one denoted with a road sign and a cluster of mailboxes. The number on the mailbox were falling off but they at one time read 174. Miles turned down the dirt road, little more than tire tracks through a yard of reclaimed weeds and grasses. A lone telephone pole housed a collection of faded signs including “Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted” and “No Solicitors (Unless You're Selling Girl Scout Cookies).” The last part was written in with a permanent marker and made Miles chuckle.

He drove a short ways before he spotted a one-story, ranch-style house with moldy beige siding and cloudy windows. Miles continued until he was parked behind an ancient Ford pick-up truck. He got out of the jeep, nose scrunching up at the amount of dust kicked into the air. Miles shrugged into his brown leather jacket, shivering at the cold breeze ravaging the hillside that gray afternoon.

Miles pulled out his camcorder, checked the battery level and settings, then hit the button and began filming the area. The house looked in ill-repair though not very old. Probably within the last ten years and potentially a prefabricated buildings. The truck was predominantly red though one of the doors was unpainted and the entire thing was discolored and rusted. The truck bed was filled completely with huge sacks labeled as cow feed. Miles spun in a circle trying to determine where the cows were located, but saw none. He hummed to himself as he shut off the camera and hid it away in his jacket. He approached the house cautiously.

The screen door squeaked as Miles opened it before banging his knuckles against the flimsy plywood door. He waited patiently for a minute and was about to knock again when he head the noise of several locks being undone. Something to hide, or just prudent living for being so far away from a police station? Miles filed the information away.

The door finally opened just a crack, still held by a chain lock. A wide eyed young face appeared in the crack and addressed Miles. Miles' eyes were not adjusted to the darkness, but he could make out black framed glasses and wavy hair. “Can I help you?” the face asked.

“Hi there. Miles Upshur. I'm a reporter doing a piece on the Murkoff Corporation. You've heard of them?”

“Uh...no,” said the boy. Miles' reporter-sense flared. Liar. “You uh, must have the wrong place, uh, Mister...”

“Miles Upshur,” he repeated, his tone friendly. “Can I get your name?”

“Uh....William,” the boy answered, but the way he said the formal name had Miles immediately guessing that he probably went by something different. He sounded like a Will, or a Willie....no...

“Nice to meet you Billy. How old are you?”

“I'm uh, twenty,” said Billy, peeking through the crack. 

“You live here by yourself?”

“No, I'm...” the young boy's eyes were darting around behind their frames, “...I'm not alone. I have lots of room mates. They're out right now. Hunting. They are hunters and they will be home soon, with their guns. So many guns.”

Miles just sighed to himself, disappointed at the amateurish tale. “I won't take up much of your time. Do you happen to have any information about the people that lived in this house before you?”

“My grandfather built this house,” said Billy, pride creeping into his tone.

“Oh really?” Miles said, his ears perking up at the admission. “And where is your grandfather now?”

“Not here...” the boy answered, and Miles narrowed his gray eyes.

“What's your grandfather's name?” Miles asked, reaching into his pocket and taking out his flip pad, unhooking the pen from its docking station. 

“Mustermann. Max Mustermann,” answered Billy, saying the name with enough conviction that Miles was almost ready to believe him. Almost. He jotted the name down on his pad.

“Sounds German,” he said, writing. “There were a number of German scientists working at the company I mentioned. Murkoff?”

“I know, but grandfather never worked there,” said Billy.

“Yet you knew that Germans worked there?” Miles asked, looking up from his pad and raising an eyebrow.

“Look, my grandfather knows nothing about this company or whatever it is you are asking about. Yes he's German, but the scare about every German being a Nazi has been dead for decades so I don't know what kind of trouble you are trying to dig up by coming here asking these questions,” said the boy, and Miles' eyebrows shot up his forehead. Okay, so maybe this person was slightly more formidable than Miles had originally believed. 

“Trouble?” Miles laughed, oozing his charm into his actions. He replaced his pen and slid the writing pad back into his inner coat pocket before leaning one elbow lazily against the outside door frame and grinning in the small opening. “I don't want trouble. Just curious. I'm a reporter, that's true enough, but...well...” Miles fished a card out of his pocket and held it up with a sheepish grin. The boy squinted through his frames and Miles pushed the card through the opening. “You can keep that.”

Billy accepted the card and stared down at it, his young forehead wrinkling in confusion. “I uh, write for blogs,” Miles explained. “Corporate blogs. Sorry, blogs are like, web pages on the internet where you can update periodically and people...”

“I know what blogs are,” snapped the boy. Miles shrugged and smiled again.

“So yeah. I'm just looking up some old addresses that might have people that could tell me about Murkoff back in the good old days. Just...wanting to do some fluff pieces. I don't suppose you could tell me how to get in touch with Mr. Max Mustermann?”

“Maybe...” said Billy, staring up from the card and then back at Miles who continued to wear his vacuum-salesman smile.

“That number is my personal cell. I'm going to be in town for a day so you can feel free to call me,” said Miles. Though he would be doing his own research and attempting to contact this Mr. Mustermann himself, of course. The boy seemed simple. Maybe he would not suspect much. “Anyways, thanks for your time. I should probably get going before the room mates show up and mistake me for a buck.”

“Roommates?” Billy asked, confused. Miles' smile crept up on one side. It was exhausting being right all the time.

A strange buzzing noise from within the house suddenly caught Miles' attention and he attempted to look past Billy, deeper into the house. The boy looked very alarmed when Miles tried so he quickly held up his hands innocently. “Sorry, I heard something strange like a buzzing. Probably just the television. Anyways. Thanks again.”

Miles grinned to himself as he started walking back toward his jeep. He had almost reached the door when he heard the door to the house behind him flung open and footsteps approaching. He turned slowly, knowing to be cautious in these situations. People were possessive of their secrets, and anyone could potentially be carrying a weapon. Miles had learned these things the hard way.

Billy trotted to where Miles was standing and then stood catching his breath. “Sorry. Mister Upshur,” he said. “I feel like we got off to a strange start. I'm not trying to be unhelpful. I just don't know if my grandfather would want someone bothering him. His health...his health is not good and he does not like to talk much about his life before he....retired.”

Miles was listening and recording everything in his brain, but he was distracted by the boy. Billy claimed to be twenty but he had a face that looked far younger than his years. Large square black glasses lined dark blue eyes and his hair was wavy and black. Miles originally though it seemed highlighted or frosted until he saw it was actually streaks of silver gray. The youth of his face and brightness of his eyes seemed in direct opposition to those accents. Billy was slightly taller than Miles, though not by much, and his build was muscular perhaps due to living alone on such a large ranch. He was wearing faded blue jeans and a gray plaid button down shirt and dusty boots.

“So um, I actually do want to, uh, help you. I'll talk to grandfather. I mean, I will try to get in touch with him and ask him his thoughts and see what I can do. No promises. What exactly do you even want to talk to him about then?” Billy asked, and Miles was confused. The boy seemed almost shy to meet his eyes and he could have sworn that was a blush on his smooth cheeks. 

“I appreciate the help. I'm up for an award you see, and I feel like a good story could be what wins it for me,” lied Miles, giving his “aw-shucks” smile. “Just want to ask him about some past people and events at Murkoff. Nothing too big. Any help would just be amazing. Thank you so much.”

Miles climbed up into the jeep and Billy watched him go. Miles gave a wave after he turned the jeep around in the large flat front yard of the house and began driving back the way he came. His mind immediately began to race. There had to be more to this Mustermann than Billy was saying, and there was something very odd about Billy himself. Miles' journalistic instincts were never wrong. He drove back the way he came and went towards Leadville proper, finding it to be as pitifully small as he had imagined. He checked into the nicest motel he could find, which was not saying much. He had to go to the front desk to ask about the internet.

“So you guys do not have wifi? The sign outside _clearly_ states that you have internet,” Miles said to the balding clerk at the front desk wearing a stained white tank, gray sweats, and watching a twelve inch television on the desk. 

“Internet. Yeah,” said the clerk, reaching into a desk and pulling out a frayed ethernet cord.

“So there is no wifi? What is this, 2003?” Miles complained.

The man pushed the cord over to Miles with a bored look on his face and glanced back over at the television where Alec Trebek had just announced the Daily Double. 

“It's not dial up is it?” Miles sneered, pulling the cord to himself and preparing to storm out of the tiny office back to his pitiful room.

“Shoot no. What do you think this is, 1997?” the clerk asked with a scoff.

“Don't fucking use my same snide comment back on me, asshole,” snarled Miles before attempting to slam the door only to find it had a release that prevented such a thing from happening. There must have had a problem with disgruntled customers at that establishment. Miles rolled his eyes and returned to his room to set up his laptop. He put the hotel television on the local news and started his research.

_Max Mustermann_ , he typed into Google. “Oh, fuck me,” grumbled Miles, glaring at the screen. “Ugh, bullshit. I'm a fucking idiot. Should have checked on the phone but no service out in the goddamn butthole of Colorado. Goddammit...” Talking to himself rarely helped.

Luckily, one thing the town did have was a liquor store within walking distance. Miles returned to his room with a bottle of their cheapest bourbon. He scoured the hotel room for any kind of cup and was not surprised when he found none. Oh well, the bottle would have to suffice. Miles threw back a few drinks until he was buzzed enough that the local news report about some cowpoke parade seemed interesting. 

His thoughts kept wandering to Denver and what he would be doing if he had not followed this lead to nowhere. Waylon was notoriously adorable when drunk, and affectionate too. His nerd friends from the IT department at the Denver Bank would be sipping their weak beers. Eddie would stick out like a sore thumb, resembling some kind of brute with his undercut, muscled physique, and mean blue eyes. Definitely not with the IT crowd. It would be so easy to get Waylon alone and allow his friend to hang on him and kiss him and talk about dirty things...

Miles felt like a creep for thinking about taking advantage of his drunk friend, or more accurately arranging for his friend to be able to take advantage of him. He felt even worse when he found himself opening up that familiar file he had _promised_ himself would delete. He at least promised not to watch it again. A promise he made to himself after every viewing. But there was his movie player, loading with its animated circle icon slowly filling up until the video started.

“You're horrible, you know that,” grinned Waylon, centered in the camera's lens wearing comfy pajama pants and an over-sized cotton shirt. His soft blond hair was messy because they had spent the evening lounging around watching movies. His cheeks were pink because they had drunk some beers, but neither had been inebriated. 

“You like it,” Miles teased back from behind the camera. There was some jostling of the scene as the camera was put onto a tripod. 

Then Miles walked into the frame, shirtless with his jeans hanging off his hips. It was always satisfying to watch the video and see that his gym membership had paid off. His body looked toned and his naturally tanned skin looked darker next to Waylon's stark paleness. The camera recorded Waylon blatantly checking Miles out when he was not looking, and then blushing. Miles would often pause the video and stare at that pink flush, but that night he let it play on. “It'll be fun,” Miles said on the video, “Aren't you curious what you look like when you come?”

“I guess I never thought about it,” Waylon said, giving a nervous tittering laugh. 

“That's too bad,” Miles breathed, stepping closer to his friend, “I think about it all...the...time...” Fuck, the tension in the video after that line was always such a sexy shock to Miles when watching it. That was the moment he had known that despite all of Waylon's claims that he did not want to make the video, they would definitely be recording something interesting that night. 

“So am I doing this myself then?” Waylon chuckled on the camera as Miles stalked even closer until their bodies were almost touching.

“I can help...” Miles purred.

“H-h-help?...” stuttered Waylon.

“Sure...I can touch you, or I can take you...tell me what you want...” Miles said on the video, causing the Miles watching to bite back a soft moan at the wanton look that crossed Waylon's face. 

A long pause passed in the video where there was nothing but silence and the vision of Waylon blushing bright pink, chest heaving with every breath. “Take me,” Waylon whispered, barely audible on the video. Miles' memory of the command was much sharper and louder. It played over and over again in his mind on repeat, driving him insane most nights. Forcing him to return time and time again to this goddamn cursed video they had made that one fateful night...

The sudden explosion of the phone in his pocket caused Miles to rip his hand out of the front of his jeans and sit up straight in the motel chair. He fumbled for several seconds, closing the video and bringing the phone to his ear. Unknown number. Miles assumed that Waylon must have found someone's phone and decided to drunk dial him to rub in his face how he was missing a hell of a party...

“Upshur.”

“Oh uh, hey Mister Upshur. It's Billy.”

“Not William?” Miles asked, shaking off the booze so he could focus.

“What? Oh. It is William, but everyone calls me Billy.” Miles was not surprised. “I uh, well, grandfather he, uh, wants to talk with you. Maybe. Can we meet tomorrow?” Billy asked over the phone.

“What time tomorrow,” Miles asked, already considering his schedule the next day. He would have a hangover until around ten, when he needed to put in some writing work to earn a paycheck, but after that...

“Can we meet around lunch maybe?”

“Sure thing, Billy.”


	2. White Lightning

The next morning's hangover arrived exactly on time. Miles took a shower in the motel's combination bathtub/shower and walked to a nearby convenient store to purchase some Advil and water. He laid back down until the medicine kicked in, allowing him to concentrate finally. He wondered how drunk Waylon had been the previous night. Judging by the list of text messages Miles had found upon waking, Waylon had been sloshed.

_[9:09:32]Miles you are missing it you ass I wanted you to be here boooooo boooooo I am booing you asshole._

_[9:45:02]I'm sorry I booed you. That was mean. You should come here still we are staying another hour!_

_[10:12:40]There's a guy here who looks like you except hotter ahahahah jk ur cute_

_[10:35:52]Eddie tried to take my phone away so I could not text wheeeeee_

_[11:23:49]I thnik abot u alottt_

Where was this guy's auto-correct? Miles deleted them all with a sigh. The one from after midnight was completely illegible and mostly written in nonsensical emoji. He knew that most of the problem was his own head being unable to drop the idea that he and Waylon were meant to be together. But a small part of the blame definitely lay with Waylon. Miles wasn't imagining it—his friend enjoyed leading Miles on and keeping him around. It was that attitude that kept Miles' keen investigative skills convinced that Waylon was definitely still feeling for him. Eddie could probably sense it. Maybe that was why he despised Miles. Still, Waylon refused to cut off contact with his best friend.

Once his headache was gone, Miles was able to write some blog entries for his clients. Writing bullshit for corporate websites was not his life's calling, but investigative journalism did not always pay the bills. When he was younger, Miles had traveled and written articles in nationally published magazines—even won an award for exposing some inconvenient truths about the Murkoff Corporation. 

Unfortunately, it had also crippled his career. Companies were afraid of men like Miles that sought to bring light to the darkest corners of their businesses. Everyone had shadows and skeletons hidden away. Murkoff made it personal when they went after Miles' personal life. After that, his feud with the corporation had reached biblical proportions, and Miles dreaded the outcome. But hey, David ended up bringing down Goliath. Miles just needed to find his sling-shot. 

In the mean time, Miles wrote up posts for different companies around Colorado. He wound up in the State following his ex-boyfriend. It was alright—he didn't love or hate Colorado. He made a passable living writing blogs for ski lodges, outdoor shops, rock climbing rentals, hiking tours, and other companies that sought to appear approachable to the young, active community around Boulder and Denver. It was hours of writing about “sweet views” and “sick jumps” to draw visitors to certain areas and activities. Whatever. It paid. 

Miles was just posting an update for one ski lodge about an upcoming sale on used ski equipment. In reality, the snow was leaving for the season and they were going to get rid of the most badly damaged rentals from the past season. Miles managed to make it sound like a great deal completely worth the time and effort to get deep discounts on almost unusable shit. The company was satisfied; that's what mattered.

Finally, Miles could focus on the story that held his true passion. He drove through the main road in Leadville and past the town a short ways until he spotted the place Billy had mentioned on the phone the previous evening. There were dozens of trucks and cars parked out in a flat field, muddy from melted ice and frost. The sky was overcast and cold which made freezing rain a real threat. There were several stalls with different color tarps for roofs and people milling about with grocery bags brought from home. Miles walked around looking for Billy and surveying the goods. There were vegetables, homemade pies and treats, local honey, and a plethora of strange goods like jewelry and candles. 

Miles was staring hard at something titled “meat pie” when he felt a hand grasp his shoulder from behind.

“Mister Upshur,” said Billy, startling Miles into turning around. “Oh hey, uh, sorry if I scared you.”

“What? Oh, no. It's nothing. What is this place?” Miles asked, gesturing around the area.

“First Saturday. Lots of the local farmers gather up. Kind of part farmer's market, part flea market, part gossip circle. The veterinarian I use for the cows comes here to talk to the farmers and offer his business. He gave me a ride. Thought you might want some good, local food?”

“Why the fuck would you think that?” Miles asked, forgetting himself for the moment. Billy's eyes went wide behind their frames. “I mean, yeah, local food. I just don't know what that would be. You lead the way.”

The young man seemed at ease wearing a flannel shirt tucked into jeans, and a belt complete with a large, shiny buckle. Miles felt slightly out of place wearing his brown leather jacket, dark jeans, and a navy, woolen sweater. A few men wearing cowboy hats stopped talking when he approached and watched him pass. Only at a backwards place like this do the people wearing _cowboy hats_ stop to stare at someone else for standing out.

Billy walked up a large barbecue pit, smoking away near the outskirts of the area. He ordered two pulled pork sandwiches and handed one over to Miles. The reporter stared at the sloppy sandwich as they found an empty picnic table to claim. Miles worried for a moment that his hangover was not as conquered as he had originally thought. Billy was already eating away happily with sauce smeared all over his young face. Miles took a tentative bite.

“Holy shit,” Miles said, his mouth full of pork. “That's good.”

“Right?” Billy asked, grinning with his cheeks puffed out from food. “My neighbor supplies a lot of the pigs. They're delicious.”

Well, that was slightly more than Miles wanted to hear, but still. Damn, the sandwich was good. The two men finished their food and washed it down with fresh squeezed lemonade an old woman was making right in front of their eyes. There was nothing really amazing about it, but Miles was grateful for the drink anyways. 

“Really nice of you to treat me like this,” Miles said as the pair sipped lemonade and wandered aimlessly through the aisles of strange merchandise. “You didn't have to.”

“That's okay. I, uh, wanted to,” Billy said, taking a hurried sip and turning his head. Okay, the boy had definitely blushed that time.

“You sure you're twenty?” Miles asked, staring at the blushing young man and lifting his hand up near Billy's face.

“Yeah? Why do you ask?” Billy asked, staring at the approaching hand with a nervous expression.

“You seem younger,” shrugged Miles, wiping his thumb across Billy's cheek roughly. “Or maybe that's just the sauce on your face.”

“I get that a lot, but, no, I'm twenty. I'll be twenty one next week actually,” Billy said.

“So you're almost twenty one, you live alone, and you take care of animals?” Miles asked.

“Cows, yeah. We have a lot of them out on the land. I don't live alone though. My grandfather that I mentioned. He actually lives with me,” Billy admitted, shrugging as though it was no big deal.

“Was he the one out hunting?” Miles pressed. 

“Well, about that, you see, the thing is, uh, you could probably say that...” Billy was a terrible liar. Miles chuckled to himself, shaking his head. “Okay I lied. It's juts me and a sick old man out there. I have to be careful. You understand?”

Miles' eyebrows shot up. The truth? The boy had told the truth. Well, that was refreshing. “Yeah. No. I mean, I understand that completely.” A few excited shoppers shoved their way past the slow walking pair in search of a bargain.

“I'm sorry Mister Upshur. I did not want to lie, but grandfather hates visitors. We've had trouble in the past with thieves or dumb kids harassing the cattle,” Billy said.

“No no, I get it. Okay so the truth is you live with your grandfather, take care of some cows, and don't like strangers,” Miles said, nodding along as he listed off the major points. “Seems legit. So did you talk to the old man about potentially letting me ask him some questions?”

“I did,” Billy said, stepping ahead of Miles and walking between a couple of stalls to allow them to be out of the flow of traffic. Billy tossed his empty lemonade glass into an empty oil drum that was acting as a trash can; Miles followed his example. Once they were not in danger of being trampled, Billy met Miles' gray stare. “He doesn't want to talk to you. I'm sorry, I really tried.”

Miles frowned down at the muddy ground. Billy's grandfather did not want to talk to him. Not 'Grandfather knows nothing about Murkoff' or 'Grandfather is too infirm or demented to remember anything' but 'Grandfather does not want to talk to you.' Looks like 'Max Mustermann' knew something after all. 

“I understand,” Miles said, giving a shrug and keeping his sad expression. “I came out here on a long shot anyways. Probably lose the job before I can get a suitable piece written.” Miles glanced out of the side of his eye to see if his sad-sack routine was working. Billy looked close to tears. Poor sap.

“Well, you tried. I really appreciate that,” Miles said, smiling sadly as he met Billy's dark blue gaze.

“Mister Upshur...”

“Mister Mustermann...”

“Huh?”

“Oh, sorry, I though maybe there was a chance you had your grandfather's last name,” Miles explained.

“Oh, no. My last name is Hope,” Billy offered. “Do you think you could give me a lift home?”

“Sure,” Miles shrugged, not thinking much of it. Not like he had anything else to do in that fuckhole town anyways. Maybe he could leave that night and offer to take Waylon out to Sunday breakfast for their own, private celebration of his new job. 

“See, if you were to drive me home, grandfather would see what a kind person you are, and be forced to talk to you at least a little. That's the best I can do. After that, whether he opens up or not is on you,” said Billy.

Miles was genuinely surprised. The simple, easy to read boy, had actually concocted a sneaky plan to get Miles an audience. But why? Miles beamed at Billy and the boy blushed horribly and bit his lower lip.

Oh. That was why. Miles smiled his most roguish grin for the young man. “You're alright, kid. Helping me out like this? That's really sweet of you.”

Billy was too flustered by the smile and compliment to form a response. Miles just chuckled and slapped Billy on the shoulder, leading him back through the shopping area toward his jeep, parked out in the muddy field. “You want anything before we go? It's my treat. I don't know what all they have around here, but maybe you'd like some...” Miles stopped at the closest random stall and found himself staring at a man smiling and proudly displaying several missing teeth, “...white whiskey? Huh, never heard of it.” 

“That's moonshine,” Billy whispered in Miles ear, making the reporter pause for a moment. Fuck. Had it really been that long since anyone had touched him or breathed near his ear? Miles felt like some kind of ignorant virgin getting a semi from an innocent whisper. The silence continued until it became almost awkward.

“I'll take some,” Miles finally blurted out, retrieving his wallet from his jacket. Dammit. But he had to do something to get out of the situation. Soon the two men were buckling into the jeep and Miles headed toward Billy's home with the hooch in the backseat. 

The drive to Billy's house was only about twenty minutes, and Miles rarely had trouble making conversation. He covertly interrogated the young man. He learned that Billy lived with only his grandfather and had since he was ten years old. He worked with the cattle everyday and upkeep of the property. This was in addition to taking care of his grandfather, which had become a full time job as the man grew older. When asked about his grandfather's age, Billy claimed not to know and became evasive.

“So what do you do for fun around here? I mean, besides moonshine,” Miles asked as they turned down the dirt driveway that led to Billy's house. 

“I don't drink moonshine,” Billy said, grinning. “I don't drink at all.”

“Why not?” Miles asked.

“Because I'm _not twenty one_?” Billy answered, as though it should be obvious.

Miles cracked up, and continued to laugh as he put the jeep into park. He leaned over the steering wheel, trying hard to stop himself but finding it difficult—especially with the offended look Billy had on his face. The young man adjusted his glasses indignantly. 

“I'm sorry. I did not know that kids like you really existed,” Miles said, finally catching his breath. He grinned over at his companion and saw Billy's ears behind his glasses were bright red. “Listen,” Miles said, reaching into the backseat to retrieve the bottle of white whiskey he'd purchased earlier, “take this. It's an early birthday present, from me.” Miles grinned as he held out the bottle, but Billy made no move to take the gift.

“I can't accept that,” Billy said, a scandalized expression on his young face.

“Why not?” Miles asked, confused, his arm starting to fall slightly where it was holding out to Billy. “Take it, it wasn't that expensive.”

“No, but I'm not twenty one,” Billy reiterated, enunciating as though Miles were hard of hearing.

“I know that, but you're close enough. I mean, most people have had a drink before they're twenty one. This stuff is probably absolutely god-awful, but one sip won't kill you. Well, probably won't,” Miles amended before continuing, “anyways, you can keep it until you're twenty one if that makes you feel more comfortable.”

“If I take this, you could get in serious trouble for providing alcohol for a minor,” Billy said seriously. 

Miles blinked a few times. This kid was for real? “Fuck,” muttered Miles, chuckling at himself. “Fine. Forget it. I'll keep it.”

“Or maybe,” Billy said, quietly in the parked jeep, “...you could give it to me on my birthday, when I am turning twenty one.”

“But that's not until next week, right? What day?” Miles asked, frowning. 

“Next Tuesday,” Billy said, a hopeful expression creeping into his blue eyes shining behind their lenses. 

“I might be gone by that time...” Miles said, feeling awkward suddenly.

“Well, your business card said you're from Denver. It's only about two hours? A little more? You could make the trip for my birthday?” Billy's expression was nervous.

Miles was silent for several moments before he finally managed, “Uhh...sure kid. We'll see.” He quickly opened the jeep door and let himself out, waiting as Billy did the same before walking up to the door. Billy opened the screen and unlocked the door, holding it open for Miles.

The small home looked how Miles would have expected. There was a sitting area with some old cloth couches that looked well-used, and a rocking chair in the corner. All the furniture was facing the fireplace and Miles did not see a television anywhere.

“No television?” Miles asked, the question leaving his lips before he could censor his thoughts.

“Oh yeah, no, there's no cable out here, and we can't really get satellite for some reason...” Billy answered, evasively. “I read a lot of books.” 

“But yesterday I could have sworn I heard...” Miles started.

Billy cut off the question as he locked the door behind them. Miles was momentarily stunned at the considerable number of padlocks in addition to the chain and regular locks on the door. Billy led the way through a doorway that led into the tiny kitchen in the area. The kitchen had yellowing linoleum on the floor and Formica counter tops that were starting to fade and crack. The cabinets looked worn despite a fresh coat of white paint. A strange noise originated from a room off the back of the kitchen. Billy led the way through the kitchen and stopped at the doorway. 

“Hey Grandpa,” Billy said brightly. There was no response though Miles could see the boy smile. “Just got done with Dr. Connors. Went over to the green market and ended up getting a ride home with my friend, Mister Upshur.” Billy waved his hand at Miles, beckoning him to come closer. 

Miles slowly walked up to the doorway and peeked over Billy's shoulder, made awkward by the boy being slightly taller than him. “Hi Grandpa,” said Miles brightly, waving as he scanned the room.

It was a small bedroom and the main area was occupied by a huge chair. To call it a wheelchair did not begin to describe the contraption. The machinery had bleeping monitors, oxygen tanks, and hooks to hold IV bags. The person in the chair was also a shock. Billy's grandfather was old. No, he was fucking ancient. Grandfather was sitting in the life support chair with tubes coming from both nostrils. Miles was unsure if the elderly man was lucid. He stared in their general direction with unblinking, cloudy blue eyes. The man's mouth appeared slack. There was a constant hum and whir of the different monitors and machines, but none of them sounded like the buzzing noise Miles had heard the previous day. 

“Billy,” wheezed the elderly man. Miles could detect the faint trace of a German accent. “Why did you bring him here?”

Miles was shocked. The old man looked wrinkled with skin like parchment and a dull gaze, but he spoke with intelligence and precision despite the wheezing inhales between words. “Hi. Miles Upshur. I'm writing up a story about the Murkoff Corporation. Billy thought you might remember something. Anything you can tell me would be appreciated,” Miles said, giving his most charming smile.

The old man's expression never changed, remaining slack and his eyes unfocused. He flicked his finger and the entire life-support chair swiveled to face Billy straight on. “No, Billy. You need to make your _friend_ leave.”

“No, we really are _just friends_ , I assure you,” Miles said, holding up his hands. “I'm not really into younger guys. They don't know what they're doing, you know what I mean?” No response. “You know what I mean.”

The chair did not change from its position directly on Billy. “I know what you are thinking, Billy. And after seeing this man I can tell you, you are making a dire mistake. No.”

The buzzing sound that Miles had heard the previous day started up again. It was so dim at first that Miles suspected it was one of the many machines in the room, but soon it became so pervasive that he was shocked no one else in the room was reacting to the noise. Miles began to look around, even looking backwards into the kitchen in order to find the origin. 

“Take care of that. **Now** ,” ordered the old man. Billy turned and bumped into Miles as he rushed to leave the room. The buzzing noise seemed to follow him out of the room, dying down considerably once Billy was out of sight.

Miles stood in the room, staring at the old man. He took a chance and sat himself down on a small wooden chair situated near the small single bed in the room that was made up with sheets resembling a hospital more than a home. The life-support chair whirred to life as the man turned it with his finger until he was facing Miles dead on, same unchanged expression.

“Billy said you wrote scheisse for the internet,” the old man wheezed as Miles retrieved his flip pad and began writing, starting with the foreign word. He would look that up later. 

“Companies pay me to write entries in their blogs. Daily, weekly, monthly, on demand. It's mostly pieces that make the company look good, highlight events, and announce sales and special events.” Miles shrugged, doing his best to appear harmless. 

“I do not buy that for a second,” the old man breathed. “No entertainment writer could happen upon _this_ address by chance alone. Why are you really here?”

“I was looking up past employees to get stories about some of the old timers. The crew that used to run with Rudolf Wernicke, before he died,” Miles said, sitting back in the chair with his flip pad open on his leg. “And I'm not the only one playing false. Max Mustermann? No way in hell that's your name,” scoffed Miles, smirking at the old man. According to Miles' research, 'Max Mustermann' was the German equivalence of 'John Doe.'

“I knew Wernicke,” the old man wheezed. Miles found the unchanging expression disconcerting, but he kept his face neutral and leaned closer as the man spoke. “He was a twice damned fool.”

“You knew Wernicke? Did you know anything about Project Walrider,” Miles asked. If he had expected some kind of change in the man's appearance, he was disappointed. There was still no change though the man did pause for several moments, the machines beeping and whirring along normally behind him. 

“Project Walrider was a mistake,” he said, finally. “If you know about the project, then you also must know that it was a failure.”

“It was a failure, but there was talk about continuing it. Wernicke's original notes and research—it's all about nanoscopic machines and turning humans into factories. During your time it was a failure, but they had theorized about how to create the perfect host..they wanted to experiment on the mentally unstable, the criminally insane...”

“You know a lot for an Internet writer,” the old man wheezed. 

“I'm a reporter in addition to the Internet thing. I'm onto Murkoff. I exposed a scam they had going on overseas, scamming villages out of their own damn water. Kept my eye on them ever since. I managed to get an inside informant helping me with the information. Seems some classified documents from Wernicke's era surfaced recently. I'd kill to learn all I can about the man before he died,” Miles said, noting the way the machines' volume began to increase slightly, the breathing whirring faster and the beeping increasing in rhythm despite the elder's slack expression.

“Why would these things resurface? The project was a failure. Dead and buried along with its creator,” the old man wheezed, his tone unchanged. “A suitable host was never found.”

“Well, the thing is,” Miles said, staring hard at the old man, “Murkoff recently acquired themselves an asylum.” After he made the admission, a new, louder alarm began sounding. The beeping and whirring raised to a fevered pitch and Miles flew to his feet, dropping his notepad to the ground and looking around the room in horror.

Billy ran into the room, rushing to his grandfather's side and began checking dials and monitors. “Go wait in the living room,” Billy ordered Miles. The reporter picked up his notepad and followed the instructions. Once he was alone in the living room, Miles pulled out his camcorder and began a quick recording of the interior of the house. He filmed the entrance way, kitchen, and then wandered down another hall leading to the opposite end of the house. He gently pushed on one door. Tiny bathroom that looked clean though run down. He pushed on another. Coat closet. The last door in the hallway was shut tight, but Miles looked around before opening it. 

Inside the room were two twin beds with denim colored blankets, a stack of clothing in the corner that had failed to hit the hamper, and a desk complete completely covered with books and magazines. Billy's room? It was normal. Very normal, except for the lack of electronics. Miles recorded it quickly, before turning the camera off and concealing it once again. He shut the door and walked back toward the living room, almost running into a pale Billy returning from the kitchen.

“Hey. I helped myself to the bathroom. Hope that's okay,” Miles said, giving a sheepish grin.

“Oh...yeah sure, it's no problem. Yeah,” Billy said, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose. His wavy hair was messier than usual. “I'm really sorry about that. I think I mentioned to you that grandfather is very old.”

“Old yeah, but all his screws are still there,” Miles said, meaning for it to sound encouraging, though Billy just looked at the carpet and nodded. “I hope I did not cause too much trouble back there...”

“Oh. No, he's very old. It's not that unusual really. I know that he's ornery and...not very easy to talk to. But he's the only family I have. He adopted me and took care of me and he helped me through a really dark time in my life,” Billy said.

“Wait, that man isn't your blood grandfather?” Miles asked.

“He adopted me legally; that's just as good,” Billy said defensively, his dark blue eyes hurt behind their lenses. 

“No, of course, I know,” Miles said, apologetically. “Well. Do you think he might be able to talk to me more tomorrow? I feel like we were making really good progress before everything hit the fan.”

“You...you would come back?” Billy asked, his blue eyes dilating at he looked Miles up and down. 

“Sure, do you think your grandfather might have any documents filed away? Anything about Murkoff I could glance at?”

“I could check in the attic,” Billy offered before biting his lip and looking down at his feet. “But um, I hope you're not coming back just to see grandfather...” Billy rubbed the toe of his work boot into the carpet. 

“Uh...yeah. About that...” Miles wanted to tell him that he had told the truth in the backroom. He was thirty-two years old and not interested in any relationship at that time, especially not with someone so young. But Miles knew that this kid and his grandfather could be ammunition in the case against Murkoff. If a little bit of flirting could help, well... “It's not just to see him. I am really hoping that we can be friends. Hell. I promise you, I will bring back that white lightning for your birthday. How does that sound?”

“O-okay,” Billy stuttered, his cheeks blooming with heat. Miles scratched at his brown hair, suddenly feeling very out of place.

“I should get back to my motel to let them know I'll be staying another night. Thanks for all your help. Hope we can see each other tomorrow,” Miles said, before walking to the door. He waited for Billy to undo the considerable lock collection before walking quickly to his jeep. The sun was setting and it was getting unbearably cold, even with his jacket and sweater. Miles drove back to the motel thinking about the shy young man. Seduction could be used in some cases to get information. Miles was not above it. But somehow, in this situation, it felt wrong. But then again, when had that ever stopped Miles in the past? The boy was so easily flustered, and definitely not unattractive. A little bit of flirting could go a long way...


	3. Casanova

It could have been any Sunday morning. Miles woke up with an empty bottle of cheap bourbon cradled in his arms. His tongue felt furry and his eyes bruised. He struggled to his feet and found his way to the bathroom sink to down Advil, remembering to glare at himself in the mirror as he passed. 

He had not shaved in a while. His hair was getting slightly too long, hanging over his ears and sticking up at odd angles. The permanent bags under his gray eyes. Miles could not remember the last time he had seen himself looking well rested and healthy. He sighed and brushed his teeth, gurgling and sitting down on the toilet. 

Then Miles did what he always did when he was feeling ugly and low.

“Miles. I should be mad at you,” said Waylon upon answering the phone. 

“You're incapable of being mad at me. You love me too much,” said Miles, resting his elbows on his knees while holding the phone and sitting on the motel toilet. It didn't matter where he was. Hearing Waylon's voice teleported him to a better place.

“You never texted me back that night. I sent you at least a dozen smilies wearing sunglasses and I haven't heard from you since Friday,” Waylon said on the receiver. 

Miles shook his head, chuckling to himself. “I'm still on the job. I was calling to inform you, actually, that I am going to be seducing the hell out of this source. I'm not sure it will exactly work though. I need a pep talk.”

“Oh please, don't start that pity party,” joked Waylon. “You're a very persuasive person Miles. Just look at all the things you talked _me_ into.”

“Yeah I did,” Miles purred into the phone, laughing at the irritated noise Waylon made in response. “Too bad I didn't do it harder.”

“Didn't do what harder?”

“Didn't _fuck_ you harder,” Miles clarified. “Maybe if I had fucked you harder, you never would have looked twice at Gluskin.”

“Oh, stop being silly,” Waylon said, dismissing Miles' statements. Miles was used to having his feelings ignored and dismissed by his friend. Being accustomed to it did not mean it did not hurt. It did. Then again, what kind of positive outcome could he expect from such a blatantly combative statement?

“How are things with the brute anyways?” Miles asked, trying to conceal his hope for discord.

“We're fine. And I really wish you wouldn't call him that. I _need_ you and Eddie to get along,” Waylon said.

“Fat chance.”

“Well, good luck with your seduction, Casanova,” Waylon said, disgust plain in his voice.

“You know, I called you for an ego boost because I am nervous about this source and my story, but now I feel like I couldn't seduce anyone,” Miles grumbled. 

“More ego? Any more ego and no one could fit in the room with you,” Waylon laughed. Miles grumbled, obviously still displeased with the response. “Oh fine, what do you want to hear? That...you're handsome? I mean, you are handsome. You are funny. Sometimes. You're smart, and reliable...”

“Wow you make me sound sexy,” Miles said, rolling his eyes even though Waylon could not see him all the way from Denver.

“And you've got a big dick,” Waylon said, his voice getting lower and taking on a breathy quality as he phrased the naughty words. “Oh shit, Eddie. I gotta go. Good luck!”

_Beep_. 

That filthy tease. Miles thought, for a brief moment, he could see why Eddie was always berating Waylon by calling him a slut and a whore in front of company. Did his friend behave this way with Eddie? Leading him on and teasing him terribly every second of every day? Is that the cause of their volatile relationship? The image of Waylon as a sex-obsessed deviant made it necessary that Miles take care of something before he could get dressed and worry about the story. Miles leaned back on the toilet seat taking himself in hand and stroking his aching cock. 

There was nothing classy about masturbating on a motel toilet, but Miles was not a classy guy. He would have finished there until he remembered something and decided to move out of the bathroom and open his laptop. There it was, in the list of recently used files. Miles opened the video and skipped past the beginning. He skipped to the part just after he had readjusted the camera to a closer angle and both he and Waylon were sitting on the bed in only their boxers. Miles had to click backwards a few times until he started at the desired part. 

“I've actually wondered what you were packing for quite a while now,” Waylon said on the video, grinning mischievously at Miles.

“Really? This whole time we've been friends you've just been dying to know what I look like naked? Park, that's dirty.”

“Not the _whole_ time,” laughed Waylon. “since we kissed after the...incident. That's when I started to wonder...” The Miles in the video just hummed and looked confused at the admission. The Miles watching a year later recognized the words for their true meaning. Waylon had been in love with him. Miles had been too stupid and self absorbed at the time to know it. 

“Well, feel free to sate your curiosity my friend,” grinned video-Miles, gesturing towards his clothed crotch. The camera went out of focus for a random moment as Waylon reached over and pulled on the elastic of Miles' boxers. 

Waylon gasped loudly. “You're so big,” Waylon said, staring down with wide green eyes. “I want to put it in my mouth.”

Miles finished into a motel washcloth when video-Waylon said those dangerous words. Once his climax passed, Miles immediately felt the familiar tide of shame and self-loathing. The lethal combination of Waylon talking dirty and hearing his size complimented always pushed him over the edge, but he was a creep to use his best friend like that. What would Waylon say if he knew exactly how often Miles jerked off looking at him? Miles did not imagine it would be favorable. So why the fuck couldn't he quit?

An hour later, Miles was showered and headed out to Billy's house with a cup of convenient store black coffee in one hand and the steering wheel in the other. The drive had almost become familiar. He finished up his drink as he parked in front of the dilapidated ranch home. 

“Morning, Billy,” smiled Miles, holding up a baggie at the door. “I brought donuts. And coffee, but I drank it already. Sorry.”

“That's alright,” Billy said brightly, opening the door for Miles to come in out of the chilly weather. It was colder than usual for April. He was wearing a flannel shirt and jeans similar to the other days. “I don't drink coffee, anyways.”

“Of course you don't,” Miles said to himself. “So, was the old man alright last night? I had gotten used to thinking of him as Mustermann and got so carried away I forgot to ask his real name. Can I get that from you?”

Billy froze for a moment, staring at Miles in horror. “You uh, will have to ask him yourself. He actually wants to talk to you again.”

Miles was shocked, but he was not one to question his good fortune. It came rarely enough those days. He followed Billy as he passed through the kitchen and into the old man's room. The life-support chair had moved, but the man's expression and pallor remained the same. 

“Morning, Herr Mustermann,” said Miles giving a friendly wave and smile. “I brought some donuts. Can I like, liquefy them for you somehow and shove 'em through a tube?”

“Billy,” wheezed the old man. “Go to your room. I need to talk to Mister Upshur alone.” Billy looked like he wanted to disobey the order, but then he left the room, abruptly. 

“I apologize if that sounded sexual, I did not mean to make it sound sexual...” Miles started.

“Mister Upshur,” continued grandfather, ignoring Miles' discomfort the way he ignored everything else. The old man just stared blankly. The heart rate monitor was the only telling sign of any changes in his demeanor and it beeped along steadily. “I sent Billy away because I do not want to burden him with hearing a conversation about sensitive matters. He is a good boy,” the man struggled with each breathy pause, “he will not disturb us. Now, please, tell me what you know about Project Walrider and its current state?”

Miles considered his options. An immobile old man avoiding all detection was not likely to go to another news reporter. Plus, he seemed hell-bent on staying off of Murkoff's radar. Miles saw no reason not to offer a little trust in hopes he could win a relationship with this potentially valuable old man. 

“I don't _know_ anything, but I have my theories,” Miles said, scooting to the edge of the wooden chair and dragging it closer to the man to allow him to lean forward conspiratorially. “Murkoff's official stance is that Project Walrider was shut down for being a failure? I think it was shut down for being a success. My source smuggled out pictures of decommissioned documents that were scheduled to be burned. Others were being sent to Mount Massive, the new asylum Murkoff acquired. I believe Murkoff is going to start the project up again using patients the way Wernicke theorized before his death.”

The old man had no change, though the heart monitor had picked up noticeably. “Why do you care about this, Mister Upshur?”

“This thing is a weapon. It's being developed on American soil. It has to be stopped,” said Miles, putting on his most patriotic expression. 

“I repeat,” the old man wheezed, “ **why** do you care?”

Miles narrows his eyes as he considered how to proceed. A little more truth couldn't hurt, he decided.

“Someone I know was transferred to Mount Massive. Someone I loved. Love,” Miles corrected, turning away from the cloudy blank stare. “I got on Murkoff's radar around the same time as my friend came back from Afghanistan and experienced severe PTSD and delusions...which turned into self harm. Horrifyingly so.” Miles paused for a moment, unable to stop the intrusive images from his memory. He shook his head to clear it. “Anyways, he's at Mount Massive and Murkoff knew it. They made sure I knew that they knew. And then it was bought out, and my visitor's rights were revoked. Seemed petty to do that over an unflattering article. I started to investigate the matter, to make sure my friend was treated well. I still want to believe that he can get better.”

“You are in a relationship with this person?” the old man wheezed.

“Look at you, gossiping like an old lady. No, I'm single,” Miles gave an exaggerated wink at the old man who, as expected, did not respond. “I considered myself still with this person for far too long. It cost me...well, it cost me too much,” sighed Miles.

“Would you say that you've had a hard life, Mister Upshur? Your childhood? Your parents?” asked the old man, a slight cough echoing and causing his oxygen tubes to whistle. 

“Uh, I guess,” Miles said, shrugging. It was a strange sort of interview and they were straying from the topic of Murkoff. Still, Miles did not see the harm.

“My parents died when I was young. Shuffled between foster homes. Dropping out and got my GED. Finally paid my way through college so I am saddled with debt, and writing boring corporate propaganda for a living. Not quite my passion. My luck in relationships is...well, I'm obviously alone...” Miles looked at the unchanged face of his companion. “Everyone's had a hard life though in some way or another. I'm not more affected than other people?”

The monitors began to beep louder until finally a droning alarm sounded the same as the night before. Miles stood up, already hearing Billy's approaching footsteps.

“Stay. Away. From Billy,” the old man wheezed right before Billy rushed into the room.

“What's your name,” demanded Miles. 

The old man mumbled something in German that did not sound flattering. 

“Don't worry Miles, it's just an oxygen issue. He isn't dying. You need to step out of the room, though. Now,” instructed Billy, and once again Miles found himself in the living room, and then he heard it. The buzzing. He flicked his hand in front of his face a couple times wondering if it wasn't an insect, before the noise became too loud to belong to any insect short of a plague of locusts. As suddenly as the commotion started, it died down to nothing. Miles was still staring in wide eyed horror when Billy walked back into the room.

“Your grandfather is warning me to stay away from you,” Miles said, giving Billy a confused look. “What does he have against me, anyways? Is it because I'm gay? He thinks I am going to convert his precious grandson to the other team?”

“No. He doesn't talk about it, but there were rumors in his youth that he was in a relationship with a male coworker. Grandfather never married or had kids of his own, and sexuality was never something he discussed much,” Billy said. “And I don't care what he says, anyways. I don't want you to stay away from me. He's just worried that we have too much in common.”

“Too much in common? What do you even see in me?” Miles asked, giving a baffled exhale. “You use that baby face to go after older men? Is this some kind of Daddy Complex?”

“What? I never really knew my dad, he went away when I was very young,” Billy said, tilting his head in confusion.

“Never mind,” sighed Miles. “Should I leave?”

“No. You should stay. I could use some help with the cows. Come with me?” Billy asked, standing up straight wearing a thick wool-lined leather jacket over a red flannel shirt and work jeans. His thick glasses highlighted the smoldering expression in those dark blue eyes. He reached onto the top of a cabinet near the door and pulled down an off-white cowboy hat he set on his head before giving a wide grin. 

Miles had started the day considering himself an expert negotiator, and then ended up being convinced to go feed cattle by a cute kid in a sexy cowboy outfit. Good job, Upshur, he thought to himself. Billy drove the pick up and Miles understood why the boy never drove the thing off of the property.

“It gets the job done,” Billy explained after the truck finally lurched to life and limped through a few gates on the way to the further pastures. Billy and his grandfather tended a large amount of land. Why did they live in such a dilapidated place? They could easily sell even just a small plot of land and afford a better house. Miles was full of questions when they finally arrived near the cows. The beasts milled about in the open pastures, all different manner of coloring from black to white and all shades of brown and gray in between, including many with spots. “You have any experience with cows?”

“One of my foster families had horses. I was learning to ride before I was transferred again,” Miles said, eyeing the cows warily. 

It was another gray day that threatened rain, but the animals still needed to be fed. Miles took a handful of strange brown cylinders and stared at them. He sniffed the strange cylinders, and regretted it. Billy laughed from behind him somewhere. “Don't eat it. It's for the cows,” scolded Billy. Miles shot him a playful glare. The reporter approached a cow and held the cylinder out by the end. “Okay that might work, but it's better if you hold it in your hand and hold your hand flat. They don't have front teeth like a horse. They won't bite you.”

Miles frowned as he lay the strange feed flat on his palm and offered it to a cow that had come up to the truck. There were more cows in the distance, all headed toward the truck to receive feed. Miles was nervous, but he allowed the animal to come close and gobble the feed. He pulled his hand back once the food disappeared from his grip.

“Ugh,” groaned Miles, slinging cow drool off of his hand. Billy laughed even harder. “Dammit I didn't realize you brought me out here just to watch me make an asshole of myself.”

“It's just a little drool. Wipe it on your jeans,” said Billy. Miles responded with a wide eyed gaze of horror. “What?” Billy asked.

Billy systematically filled up the feed bins, hauling the heavy sacks as though they were nothing and lifting them up to empty them into the troughs. When Miles attempted to budge a single sack he found it almost immovable, and Miles was not a weak man. Billy had to be incredibly strong to heft them as though they were nothing. The cows could eat from the bins, but Billy still hand fed many of the beasts. He petted their sides as he passed, and rubbed their nose while feeding them. Miles was touched at how the boy treated his cows.

“Now are these cows for milk or for meat?” Miles asked.

“Do you see a dairy farm anywhere around here?” grinned Billy. “We raise them and sell them for meat yeah. We're not a big operation, it's mostly just local people looking for beef with that home loved flavor.”

“So if I eat a steak at this house, you would know it's former name?” Miles asked.

“No, the butcher doesn't tell us who he's sending back cut into what. And I don't really name the cows. I make sure not to keep favorites,” said Billy. 

“I almost milked a cow one time,” Miles said, sighing as he looked out over the sea of hungry cows occupying the fenced in area. 

“Almost?” Billy asked.

“Yeah. Field trip in the third grade. Everyone in class was waiting in line to milk this cow and I was next, but the cow took a huge, steaming dump and the farmer said that was the end of the demonstration.”

Billy looked at Miles for several seconds trying to determine if the man was joking before laughing so loud he started a nearby heifer. “My god. Poor Mister Upshur. I can see you as a child being told you can't milk the cow. If I had a nursing mom here today I would let you milk her,” grinned Billy.

“That just might be the nicest goddamn thing anyone has ever said to me,” Miles said, grinning. “And to think it's coming from some hipster cowboy.”

“Hipster cowboy?” Billy pushed his hat up slightly as he scratched his head in confusion. Miles wrapped his arms around himself, silently thinking to himself. “Sorry Mister Upshur. We can head back now if you'd like?”

Billy started to walk back toward the truck. Suddenly, the gray sky opened up and freezing rain began pouring down on the pair as well as the group of cows. The beasts seemed unaffected while Miles shouted and dashed toward the nearest tin-roofed structure. Billy was laughing as he followed the wet reporter. Billy took off his wide-brimmed hat and revealed still dry hair, while Miles' brown locks were falling in his face and clinging to his skin. 

“My string of great luck continues,” Miles said, gesturing toward the wall of water between them and the truck. The rain probably would not make the cows smell better, either.

“Wish there was more I could do to help you,” Billy said, speaking in a normal tone but the loud vibration of the heavy rain on the roof made it difficult for Miles to hear him, despite standing only two feet away. 

Looking back and forth between their vastly different looks, including the dry versus wet hair, Miles was struck with a question. “What do we have in common? We look as different as can be, I am a decade older than you, I'm definitely not some kinda ranch hand, and you say we have too much in common. Like what?”

Billy glanced down at the ground, replacing his hat with the brim covering his face, successfully keeping his expression hidden from Miles. “Well, I heard what you said to grandfather. Some of it. I'm an orphan too. It was just me and my mother, but she died. Everyone said it was a heart attack, but I knew it was murder. Grandfather knew it too. That's why he adopted me and took me here after she died.”

“That's sad but...also a little creepy. What exactly is your relationship with that old guy? It's not sexual is it?” Miles asked.

“What? God, no,” Billy said, removing his glasses to wipe them. The warmth of his body and the chill of the rain had caused the lenses to fog. “Nothing like that. He's just protective of me.”

Reporter-sense started ringing loud and clear. Billy knew much more about their relationship that he was not sharing with Miles. Well, Miles had gone there to seduce information out of the young man. What was he waiting for?

Miles took a step closer to Billy under the structure. He reached up and removed Billy's wide hat and began to scrutinize his face with narrow eyes. Billy stared with wide blue eyes as he carefully replaced his freshly cleaned glasses. 

“You're so young,” Miles said, his voice seeming to grow louder as the rain slowed slightly causing the deafening roar on the tin roof to subside to a more bearable level. “You take care of him and all these animals. You're a nice person Billy, but surely you realize it's holding you back from having your own life?”

“I owe him,” Billy said, watching Miles' face carefully as the reporter closed the distance between them even further. 

“Why do you owe him? He cares for you, but you are your own man. Why do you need to stay here caring for him when a professional could do it better, and he can obviously afford it? What other connection is there that you aren't telling me?” Miles pressed, his tone almost breathy despite his serious questions.

“He s-saved me,” Billy stuttered and Miles could see that the boy's hands were shaking. He wondered how much was from the cold. Miles slid his arm around Billy's shoulder and pulled the boy into a hunched position to allow Miles to hold their bodies close together to share warmth. 

“From what?” Miles asked, tilting Billy's chin slightly up. Instead of an answer, Billy launched himself forward to kiss Miles.

Bless the kid, he tried, but Miles had a hard time returning the sloppy, inexperienced exchange. Miles pulled away and worked his lips against Billy's, holding the boy still and repeating the actions until Billy began kissing back with soft caresses of his young lips. Miles felt his body respond immediately as the young man followed his lead, opening his mouth just enough that Miles slid his tongue past lowered teeth to taste Billy. 

The rain seemed to subside all together when Billy moaned into the kiss. The sudden noise alerted a nearby cow who glanced over, bored, before going back to chewing cud. Without the noise from the rain, that strange humming sound seemed to be vibrating behind Miles' ears. Miles ignored the noise and pressed his body forward, grinding his erection into Billy's thigh. “Have you had many boyfriends?” Miles asked, his voice rough and low.

“N-no, n-never,” Billy stuttered. Miles paused then pulled away from the young man with an audible groan of displeasure.

“Girlfriends?”

“N-no.”

“Of course you haven't. That explains the kissing. You're a virgin?” Miles accused and Billy looked down at the ground, utterly embarrassed. “Well. The rain stopped. Let's get back to the house. I need to get back to the motel and rethink some of my life choices.”

The first choice was which cheap bourbon to purchase before he walked back to the terrible motel and tried to write up some interesting captions for pictures to update for his clients. Miles had no problem seducing a source, but he was not going to pursue it too far with an inexperienced young guy. He could not give the grandfather a legitimate reason to be angry with him. No, he would have to tread much more carefully. Miles was dangerously lonely, but it was no excuse to take advantage of such an innocent guy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Painty insists that we point out that Miles is being kind of a dick about this and it's not nice to make someone feel embarrassed about something like that. Miles is an ass. Don't be like Miles.


	4. Happy Birthday

Miles was behind on work, and his hangovers seemed to grow more acutely painful when he was behind. He spent the entire morning working on different blogs and making sure they would update at the agreed upon time with the right information. The more troublesome websites wanted several micro-updates a day which took a lot of work to make sure there was a steady stream of advertisements and fake exuberance forced on the eyeballs of the website viewers. Miles died a little inside each time he had to add a second exclamation point to an update about a sale on carabiners. How excited can one really get for such an item?

A grumbling alerted him to his own hunger and Miles drove down the road to a diner for some brunch and coffee. He brought his laptop to allow him to continue working, though he shifted his focus to the investigation in Leadville. Miles mapped out all of the meetings he had, the information he had learned, and the questions he still had. Unfortunately, the most distracting question at that time seemed to be what to do about the Billy situation.

Some people find out that someone is interested in them, and then their own feelings begin to develop. Miles found himself to be quite the opposite. Once he found out someone was interested in him, he was immediately suspicious. What kind of person would find him desirable as something more than a quick fuck? Miles assumed there was something wrong with any person that felt that way about him. His self-loathing knew no bounds.

Waylon had loved him, and Miles had pushed him away because of it. He hid behind excuses. He had never officially broken up with Chris after he had been committed, so Miles continued to claim loyalty to his ex-boyfriend. He argued that anything sexual could ruin the wonderful friendship they already had together. And then someone else had pursued Waylon, and stolen his attention away. Of course, that was when Miles realized how fucking in love he had been with his neighbor. Too little; too late.

Would Billy be the same way? Was Miles making up excuses again? Youth, inexperience, being a source...were these just more ways for Miles to avoid getting into a relationship with someone that could prove a good match for him? He was so fucking tired of being lonely. And Billy seemed to think they had a lot in common. Dead parents wasn't exactly the best common ground to use to build a lasting relationship.

Miles' cellphone buzzed in his hand, and he looked down to see it was a reminder popping up. Oh shit. It was Tuesday. Miles quickly directed a call to the now familiar number. “Hey. Clear your schedule for tonight. You're coming out with me.”

Thanks to daylight savings time, it was still sunset when Miles pulled up to Billy's house at seven that night. He'd gotten plenty of work in that day, as well as a long nap, and felt ready for the evening.

He opened the screen door and knocked for a moment, waiting until Billy opened the door. The boy looked freshly washed, his silver streaked hair fluffy and clean. He was wearing a light gray sweater over blue jeans and blushed behind his glasses as Miles held out a gift.

“It's the moonshine. You said I could give it to you on your birthday,” Miles explained as Billy took the bottle.

“Thanks. I just need to see grandfather for a second before we leave,” Billy said, motioning Miles into the house.

The backroom was unchanged from before except the life-support chair was turned facing a small radio that was playing only static. Billy walked into the room and began checking monitors and gauges and hooking up different tubes and wires. Miles leaned against the doorway, staring at the old man who remained as comatose as usual. Billy excused himself to get some supplies from a back closet, leaving Miles alone with the old man. The static from the radio was an unsettling new addition and Miles wondered if he should perhaps offer to turn it off.

“I've been thinking a lot about this Project Walrider,” Miles said, casually. “What kind of weapon is it supposed to be, anyways?” The continued whir and beep of the machinery was the only answer for several moments.

“The Walrider is not a weapon. It is a group of self-perpetuating nanites that operate as one consciousness,” the old man finally said, wheezing as he struggled to speak. “Together the nanites have great strength and power.” At the end of his statement, a faint trace of talk radio was heard coming through the static, catching Miles attention for a moment before he turned back to the disabled man.

“Great strength and power to do what, though?” Miles pressed, gray eyes narrowing as he listened closely.

“There is the question. The scientists wanted the swarm to be a sentient being, able to operate of its own will. They may have succeeded in creating a type of consciousness within the nanites, but the Walrider Project never achieved the ability for an independent swarm; a host was necessary.”

“What could the host do?” Miles asked

“Someone that was able to direct and house the swarm would have complete control over its strength and abilities. But, they never found a host,” the old man wheezed, and the interference on the radio suddenly whooshed louder and then there was nothing but static again. Billy walked into the room and began placing additional supplies on the life-support chair.

“Okay,” Billy said after he stood up from his adjustments. “Do you need to do anything before we leave, grandfather?”

“No,” the old man wheezed. “If you insist on going, I cannot stop you.”

“I'll see you in the morning,” Billy promised, walking out and closing the door. After they were across the house, Miles heard the soft talk radio picking back up through the static.

“Are you sure it's okay to leave him? We can just stay around here if you would rather,” Miles offered.

“No, Grandfather is having a good day. He's set for the night and I have a beeper in case there are any emergencies. He's just on his same old rant about not wanting me to get close to you,” Billy said, giving a shy smile.

“Alright. Well, I asked around town and I guess the best, and only, bar is The Hat, so that's where we're going,” Miles said, walking to his jeep and getting in while Billy let himself in on the passenger side. The atmosphere felt tense and Miles guessed it was due to their kiss the previous day. Billy was not his usual chatty self. Miles attempted to put on the radio, but there was so much buzzing static that he gave up. Billy seemed upset about the radio for some strange reason. Miles assumed it was some type of atmospheric disturbance since he had heard the same static on the radio in the old man's room.

They arrived at the Manhattan—called The Hat by the locals—before long, and it was, in fact, the only bar in town. The outside resembled an old movie theater with a vertical marquee sign with chipped, fading paint and neon letters that were mostly burnt out. Miles parked and waited for Billy to meet him before pointing.

“That's where I'm saying. The Leadville Motor-Inn,” said Miles, gesturing.

“Hey! That's where they found the dead hooker last year. They said it was an overdose. I always wondered though,” Billy said out loud. Miles frowned at the news.

“Any idea what room she died in?” he asked in a small voice.

“No, why?” Billy asked. His guileless, confused expression was quickly becoming Miles' favorite.

Miles shook his head and led the way into The Hat, only to find out that inside was not much better. Light up beer advertisements and some low hanging aluminum lighting were the only illumination in the dusky dive bar. There was a pool table though it was crowded with rough looking older men that seemed to have brought their own equipment and were completely immersed in their game. Other locals were hanging at the bar, sitting and staring up at a television that was broadcasting some kind of twenty-four hour news station. Miles led Billy to a high-top table with backless stools and motioned for him to sit down.

“Stay here, I'll get you a beer,” Miles said, giving a knowing smile. He ordered two Miller Lights on draft and brought them back to the table. He pushed one across the table to Billy, spilling some of the light amber liquid. “Here, cheers, Happy Birthday Billy.” Miles held out his plastic cup to click against Billy's causing even more liquid to spill before taking a large swig. Miles hated light beer, but he wanted to start Billy on something mild.

Billy took a tentative sip and grimaced at the taste. “What is this?”

“Beer. Miller Light,” Miles said, drinking idly and looking around the bar at the clientele. They were mostly older ranchers and some scruffier people that could have wandered in from the railroad tracks for all Miles knew. No one seemed to look at them twice, and the bartender appeared bored and unconcerned with asking for identification, even with Billy's baby face.

“It's...okay,” Billy said, taking another sip. “I guess I could get used to it.”

Time passed quickly as Miles continued to buy beers and talk with Billy. The young man was an avid reader owing to having no television. Luckily, he was into biographies and nonfiction books which were Miles' favorites. They had read quite a few in common and discussed their thoughts on some historical figures and favorite authors. Miles had to admit that his one fantasy guilty pleasure was _A Song of Fire and Ice_ , which Billy had also read. Before long, the two were speaking animatedly about the virtues of the Starks versus the Baratheons and the merits of the R+L=J theory. Miles continued to refill their beers until he was starting to feel slightly tipsy, which was saying a lot considering his drinking habits and constitution usually made it impossible for him to get drunk from light beer.

“Okay so this is your fifth beer. How do you feel?” Miles asked, peering over the rim of his plastic cup to carefully examine the boy. Billy looked no worse for wear, save for an almost undetectable pinkness about his smooth cheeks.

“Great! I'm having a really nice time,” Billy said, smiling. Miles was perplexed. Either this boy was the best actor he'd ever met, or he was not nearly as drunk as Miles had been his first time drinking when he had vomited after just three beers.

“You uh, want to try something different?” Miles asked, raising his eyebrows as he stared at his companion.

“Sure!” Billy said, walking up with Miles to the bar as the reporter eyed the liquor available with an analytic eye.

“Not exactly top shelf to choose from, but oh well,” Miles waited until he had the middle-aged woman with bottle-blond hair's attention. “Hello again. It's my friend's birthday, he's twenty one. Want to try something different this time. Make us a couple of Jack and Cokes, and make one of those a double.”

“Your birthday, well happy birthday,” said the woman. Her voice sounded as though she had been smoking a carton of cigarettes every day of her adult life. “Here, on the house,” she croaked out before pulling three shot glasses and the bottle of Jack Daniel's from behind the counter. She filled three shots and held one up for herself. Miles and Billy took the other two, clicked all three glasses together, and then the bartender and Miles threw theirs back without hesitation. Billy struggled to take his entire shot in one gulp. Miles clapped him on the back with a laugh. “Good show, Billy.”

Once they had their new drinks, the pair returned to the table. Miles could feel himself growing more tipsy, and he became more guarded as Billy began to ask him questions with a level head as though none of the alcohol were affecting him.

“Do you have someone back in Denver?” Billy asked, sipping his drink.

“I have no one anywhere,” Miles said, bitterly. He hated how emo he sounded, but he tended to turn to dark thoughts when he drank. “I have a friend. He means a lot to me, but he's in a relationship with someone else. So that's that.”

“What about in the past? Did you have someone?” Billy asked.

“I'm not some kind of thirty-year-old virgin if that's what you're asking,” Miles snapped, causing the boy to hold up his hands in mock surrender.

“No, I just meant like, a lover, or a boyfriend or whatever,” Billy said, blushing intensely in the dim bar light. He began to carefully shred a wet drink napkin into tiny pieces.

“I'm thirty two years old, I've had quite a few relationships yeah. The longest one ended with him being committed to an institution for his own safety. And the most recent one ended before it ever began. I'm alone ,and not really by choice. So there,” Miles said, gloomily.

“I'm sorry,” Billy said, leaning slightly across the table. “I'm not really alone by choice either. No one much around and I can't leave the house much. I had a crush on the guy that used to deliver the medical supplies, but he was married with kids.” Billy blushed at the admission and Miles chuckled before downing the rest of his drink and slouching on his stool.

“Look. Are you feeling the drink at all?” Miles asked, noticing how bright all the lights had grown in the last few minutes.

“I think so,” Billy nodded.

“You feel kinda...giddy? Numb? Happy? Sick?” Miles asked.

“I feel great,” Billy smiled.

Miles groaned in frustration. Binge drinking was a terrible practice, but part of him felt like it was a tradition on one's twenty-first birthday. He was not sure how this boy was not passed out under the table considering the amount of alcohol they had consumed.

“Look, I'm probably already over the limit of what I can handle and still drive you home. If we stay here we'll need to sleep over in my motel,” Miles said, shaking his head.

“Great,” said Billy. The quick response caused Miles to glance up in surprise. The boy agreed so quickly. Miles had a feeling he was being played all along. Billy probably drank every night while his grandfather was incapacitated and had developed a great tolerance to trick Miles into getting drunk and initiating something sexual. Well. Miles was nearing the point when that would not be a concern any longer.

“Fine,” Miles agreed, walking to the bar and settling their tab. He returned to the high top and tapped on the table to get Billy's attention. “We're leaving.”

Billy followed Miles into the parking lot. The reporter stopped at his jeep to retrieve the present he had given to Billy earlier that night. The pair walked down the sidewalk and left the red jeep parked at the bar. The motel was visible from the bar and they had a short walk in the freezing cold night air.

“I thought you wanted to drink more?” chattered Billy, long legs easily keeping up with Miles hurried strides.

“I do. It's unnatural to not get drunk on your twenty-first birthday,” Miles said, holding the bottle close to his body under his leather jacket. It was too cold to delay too much and once they arrived back at the motel, Miles let Billy into the shabby room. The bed was unmade and dirty laundry piled up in the corner. “Sorry, I wasn't expecting company.”

Miles sat down on the bed and motioned for Billy to take the chair. He pulled out the moonshine from his pocket and uncorked the strange recycled bottle. He sniffed the liquid and pulled away quickly, feeling like he had singed his nose hairs. “Ugh. Okay, I have no cups in this cheap ass room, so hope you don't mind sharing.” Miles took a long swig from the bottle. He made a loud choking noise as he passed it to Billy.

The boy looked at the strange bottle then took a small sip. “Oh god,” Billy said, almost dropping the bottle before Miles could grab it from his hand. “That tastes the way rubbing alcohol smells.”

“It'll put some hair on your chest,” Miles grinned, pushing the bottle back into Billy's hand. “Keep drinking it. It's your present after all.”

The moonshine seemed to finally do the trick. Poor Billy was grimacing and gagging at the taste, but he managed to put back almost half the bottle during the short time they were sitting in the room and soon the boy's eyes were droopy behind their frames and a strange grin plastered to his face.

“How do you feel now anyways?” Miles asked, taking a swig of his bourbon he had started drinking to allow Billy to 'enjoy' the hooch.

“Good,” Billy slurred, giggling childishly at the slip. “Sorry. You can probably drink a whole lot more before you get the giggles.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Miles asked, slamming the bourbon bottle on the cheap motel night stand. “If I was keeping up with you, I think I would be dead. I'm not sure you're human.”

Billy laughed at that, almost spilling the moonshine except Miles reacted with just enough reflex to stop it from happening. The mishap only made the young man laugh harder.

“I'm going to feel really guilty when you are dying of a hangover in the morning,” Miles said, putting the moonshine next to the bourbon—out of harm's way.

Billy made a loud _pffffff_ at the sentiment. “Hangover. I won't have a hangover. I never have trouble recovering from anything. I'll be fine. Worry about yourself, old man,” Billy snickered.

“Your luck may change, considering how much of that white whiskey you drank, kid,” Miles said, grinning at Billy. The boy was sitting slouched back in the motel chair with his denim-covered legs spread wide, grinning at Miles. The reporter had strong feelings about taking advantage of drunk people, but damn if the boy hadn't tempting him in that moment.

“Trust me,” Billy slurred with an over-exaggerated wink. “I'll be fine.” Billy leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees where he sat on the chair so he could be closer to Miles sitting on the bed. “Is this when you're gonna take advantage of me, Mister Upshur?” The way he slurred Miles' name and title made the reporter out loud.

“No,” Miles said, though his tone was gentle. “I wouldn't take advantage of you, Billy. I don't make a habit of debauching virgins, or bedding people that can't consent.”

“What if I consent,” Billy said, sitting up straight and looking at Miles in the eyes.

“You can't,” Miles grinned. “You're drunk.”

“Not for long,” slurred Billy, pouting so hard his glasses shifted on his face into a crooked angle across his flushed face.

“That's true. In the morning, if you're not vomiting, we'll see what we can do,” Miles said, giving his most seductive smile.

“I'll be sober much sooner than that,” Billy whispered, leaning in again. Miles paused when he caught something strange about Billy's face. His eyes behind their crooked frames seemed darker—much darker than the normal ocean blue. In fact, even his sclera seemed to be transformed into an inky black...

A sudden touch at Miles wrist had him jump up from the bed and move away from Billy so quickly he bumped into the night stand. The loud _clank_ of glass bottles bumping together shattered the strange silence in the room. Billy was grinning at Miles, but everything was all wrong. The usually shy, cute boy was looking at Miles like something to eat and giving his best cat-got-the-cream smile that made Miles insides squirm.

The touch returned, but this time on the other arm. Miles turned quickly, and that time he saw something that shut his brain down completely for several heartbeats. A smoke like tendril coalesced near Miles, hovering in the air. It reached out again, lightly brushing against Miles' hand. The hazy appendage felt solid enough, and its touch was warm—alien, but not unpleasant. Miles had never felt anything like it.

“What the fuck,” Miles said when he finally found his voice. A sane person would have run, but Miles' reporter-sense was on high alert, demanding that he find answers to the surreal scene happening in his cheap motel room.

“Sorry. The Walrider really, _really_ likes you,” Billy said, giving a drunken chuckle. The tendril continued to lightly touch along the skin of Miles hand and he stared in wide-eyed horror. Another sensation on his other arm caused him to jump and turn his attention to see another tendril there touching him and even more were hovering around in the air as though waiting for some opening to feel Miles. All of the strange smoky tentacles originated from Billy Hope.

“Wait...Project Walrider?” There was a pause as Miles pulled his arms close to his body to avoid touching the being again. “The Walrider. You...wait, you can't be the Walrider,” Miles said, his impaired brain waking up under the stress of the new revelations. What had the old man said again? It was just a swarm of nanites?

“No, I'm me,” laughed Billy. “Obviously. And the Walrider is the Walrider.” One of the tendrils slipped down the front of Miles jeans causing the reporter to scramble back across the bed until he hit against the wall causing the tendril to retract.

“So are you controlling this right now?” Miles whined, panic creeping into his voice.

“Schfifty-Schfifty,” Billy slurred, nodding as though that made perfect sense. The tendrils all assaulted Miles at once, though their touch was gentle and light, teasing his exposed flesh and making no moves towards anything more violent or suggestive. Miles' heart was threatening to beat out of his chest.

“The Walrider was a success,” Miles said, staring at the still grinning Billy.

The boy laughed and a tendril reached up to gently caress Miles' scruffy cheek. “What exactly is considered a success? Living with this day to day? There are many drawbacks,” muttered Billy, sighing heavily. “No, it was not a success. It needed to be ended. Once the swarm had chosen a host, grandfather took me away before anyone could know.”

“Your grandfather ended Project Walrider?? Then he would know...he must have known Wernicke before he died,” Miles pushed, impressed that his brain was even still working. Billy giggled again.

“Grandfather _is_ Wernicke. I really thought you had figured that out,” Billy mused. For a moment, Miles was lost in thought. He was so lost he did not even seem concerned about the fact that several tendrils were running through his hair, ruffling the brown locks into an even more disheveled appearance.

“Wernicke is _alive_? How is that fucking possible? He would have to be like, one hundred and twenty years old,” Miles said, incredulity written on his face.

“One hundred and twenty four to be exact,” Billy nodded.

“But Billy. That's fucking impossible,” Miles argued.

“So is this,” Billy said as a tendril wrapped around Miles' wrist and pulled the reporter away from the wall and back across the bed toward the chair where Billy was sitting and grinning at Miles. Another appendage pulled Miles head down gently until Billy could grab his scruffy cheeks with his real hands and kiss the reporter.

Miles pulled away quickly, shaking his head and causing Billy to frown sadly. “This is...this...this is...I should take you home,” Miles said, quickly, looking for his keys. Billy was pleading as Miles stalked out the door with his keys, quickly jogging through the freezing midnight to get to his jeep. He drove back to the motel and opened the door. “Come on, we're going,” Miles said, jerking his chin toward the jeep. He was relieved to see there were no more tentacles in the room, though the strange buzzing was back, infiltrating his brain.

“That noise, it's you?” Miles asked.

“It's the Walrider,” Billy protested.

“Same difference. Get in the jeep,” Miles ordered, sternly.

“But I thought you had had too much to drink?” Billy argued.

“I've never felt more sober in my entire fucking life,” Miles said, getting into the jeep. Billy joined though he was reluctant, and he sat in the passenger seat sulking the entire length of the twenty minute drive. Miles pulled up to the house and neither man made any move.

“I'm sorry. I need some time to think about this. Not just the tentacles. I don't do virgins. My partners are usually much closer to my age. And my brain does not even seem to want to believe that this is real right now,” Miles said.

“Please, Mister Upshur,” Billy said, and Miles could hear the thickness in his voice. He looked and saw tears shining in Billy's blue eyes, illuminated by the dash-light of the jeep. Rather than shining bright, they looked almost dark gray, inky...“Don't do anything rash. If you tell Murkoff, they would hunt me down and hurt me and grandfather. I really do want to be with you. I think.”

“You _think_? You are opening up with a secret like this because you _think_ you might possibly want to be with me?” Miles was utterly confused. “You don't need to worry about me bringing Murkoff or Unsolved Mysteries down on you. I wouldn't...” Miles paused, “...I wouldn't do that.” He wouldn't, right? At least, he believed that was the truth during that moment.

“The Walrider likes you. It's...it's the most intense feeling I have ever experienced in my life, and trust me, that is saying something. The feeling makes me like you. I don't know how much of it is the Walrider or me and...I want to know you better. Please. Why don't you come inside? I have twin beds, you can sleep here and we can talk in the morning and I can...”

Miles hummed as he considered the proposition. What were the chances that Billy would try to shove another tentacle down his pants if he did agree to the arrangement? He did not seem to be in any immediate danger, and Billy had definitely left him with more questions for grandfather. Miles was a breath away from accepting when his ringing phone lit up the darkness inside the jeep. Miles rushed to hit the accept button without reading the caller-ID. He was desperate for any break in the creepy, tense atmosphere inside his jeep.

“Upshur.”

“Miles,” came a broken voice, followed by a broken sniffle. “How soon can you come over?”

Waylon. Miles shook his head violently, clutching the phone so tightly to his face that his knuckles turned white. “Right now. I'm coming there _right now_. Stay where you are.”

Miles ended the call and reached across Billy's lap to open the passenger side door. “Something's come up. Thanks for the offer, but I have to get back to Denver.”

“What?” Billy practically sobbed. “Please. I'm so sorry Mister Upshur...”

“It's a personal emergency,” Miles said, interrupting Billy's pitiful begging. “I wanted to stay—I was going to stay—but this is important. It could be life or death. I'm sorry. I will call you in the morning.”

Billy looked heartbroken as he stepped out of the jeep and started a slow, painful walk up to the door. Miles cranked the window down quickly to shout at the boy, his breath fogging up in the frigid air. “It's nothing against you. You're a really, really great kid. This isn't goodbye. I will be back.”

Billy gave a sad smile and walked into his house without another backwards glance. Miles turned the jeep around so fast he suspected two tires may have left the ground. It was early morning on a Wednesday so the roads would be clear. He could make it to Denver easily in two and a half hours—maybe two. Miles stopped at the motel only long enough to pay for an additional three days and grab his laptop. He picked up a coffee from the convenient store and drove straight to Denver.

He had a long, dark drive to think about everything that had happened. Shy Billy Hope controlled some kind of tentacle monster? Rudolf Wernicke was alive and Miles was one of two people that knew it. Murkoff had to know that the Walrider Project had not been a failure. There was so much to do, and so much to ask. But above all of those groundbreaking discoveries, Miles mostly thought of only one thing. Waylon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will be updating twice a week until further notice of any slow downs. PS: Binge drinking is bad, mmkay.


	5. Mr. Ferguson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's abusive behavior in this chapter, fair warning

Miles did not bother knocking. He let himself in with his spare key and walked into the familiar apartment. He found Waylon asleep on the couch wrapped up in a ridiculously huge orange blanket that dwarfed him in size. His unruly blond hair stuck out in odd angles. Miles started to unwrap his friend until he saw the black bruise forming around Waylon's left eye. Miles sighed miserably at the sight. He picked up his friend as gently as he could, still wrapped up in the blanket, and carried him slowly to the bedroom. Waylon was a few inches shorter than Miles, and much scrawnier, making it easy for Miles to handle his weight. Miles placed Waylon on the bed as gently as possible, then kicked off his shoes and crawled into bed beside his friend.

Waylon adjusted to the new position without waking up, snuggling up to the warm body that appeared beside him. Miles was so exhausted when he looked at the clock and saw that it was almost four in the morning. After the long drive, Miles easily fell asleep wrapped around his best friend.

The sound of Waylon's alarm clock woke the pair at eight in the morning. Waylon stirred in his blanket and pushed himself up on his elbows, staring around confused. He spotted Miles and a sleepy smile slowly spread across his bruised face. “Miles,” he breathed.

“What happened this time, Park?” Miles whispered in the quiet of the bedroom. He slowly extended his hand and lightly touched the pads of his fingers to his friend's purple cheek. Even the feather light touch caused Waylon to wince visibly.

“Ugh, I feel so stupid,” Waylon groaned, pulling the fluffy orange blanket over his head to cover his face. “I should not have called you,” Waylon said, his voice muffled through layers of the blanket.

“Yes you should. You should always call me. Always,” Miles said, trying to dig Waylon out of the blankets and only causing his friend to laugh and grip the blanket in place tighter. “Would you cut it out?” Miles laughed.

“You cut it out,” Waylon said, pulling the blanket down for a moment to stick his tongue out at Miles before covering up again.

“Real mature, Park.”

“Real mature, Park,” Waylon parroted in a high pitched, mocking tone from under the blanket.

“As entertaining at this is, you really need to tell me what happened,” Miles said, his tone turning more stern.

Waylon sighed and pulled back the blanket, laying on his back and staring at the bedroom ceiling. Miles rolled onto his side and propped his head up on his elbow, allowing him to gaze down at his friend.

“Eddie,” Waylon sighed. “I'm just an idiot.”

“No, you're not,” Miles said, shaking his head. “None of this is your fault. That guy has anger issues and he was nothing but trouble from the start. You're better off without him.”

“Without him?” Waylon asked, turning wide green eyes up at Miles. “I mean, I'm an idiot because I caused the bruise. It was my fault. I knew Eddie was in a bad mood and he asked me for some help and I ended up fucking it up really badly.”

“What the hell kind of help did you fuck up?” Miles demanded.

“I was supposed to go out and pick up his medication. He's horrible when he's off his meds, you know that,” Waylon said, as casual as if he were talking about the weather. “I got there and I picked up one prescription, but turns out it was just some new antidepressants his psychiatrist prescribed for him to try and not his usual medication he's been on for years. We both didn't notice until he was having horrible withdrawal side-effects. He lashed out, but he did not mean to hit me. The violent reaction, that's not his fault, I'm the one who messed up his medication.”

Miles was listening with barely contained fury in his face. He absolutely hated that his friend was dating such a volatile, abusive asshole. “You forgot his medication, so you deserve to be hit in the face?”

“Don't say it like that, Miles,” chided Waylon, pulling off the blanket and standing up. He staggered slowly over to a mirror in the bedroom and examined his face. “Ugh, it does look ugly huh?”

“Yeah, it looks like your boyfriend has been fucking beating you in the face. Oh, because he has,” Miles said, an angry scowl on his face.

“Quit. It was an accident. That's not even why I called you,” Waylon said, limping into the bathroom accessible from his bedroom and flicking on the light.

“Why did you call me then?” Miles asked, rolling back onto his back on the bed. He could hear the sink start up and when Waylon answered next he had a toothbrush in his mouth.

“Eddie left,” Waylon said sadly through the tooth scrubbing.

Miles felt a leap of hope and joy within his chest. “He left. What do you mean?”

“He left,” Waylon said with a mouth full of foam before spitting loudly into the sink. When he spoke again his words were clearer. “He felt so bad about his reaction that he left. I was a sobbing mess after he ran out and I have no idea where he went and he's ignoring all of my calls. That's why I called you.”

“So let me get this straight,” Miles said, sitting up in the bed and staring at the doorway into the bathroom even though Waylon was not visible. “You didn't call me crying because your boyfriend bruised your face to hell and back—you called me crying because he left and won't take your calls, after he bruised your face to hell and back?”

Waylon's frowning face popped into view to glare at Miles. “If you're not going to be any help you can leave right now.”

“That's the thanks I get for driving here from fucking Leadville at two in the morning?”

“You drove here from Leadville?” Waylon's voice asked from the bathroom. “I thought you were back in town, otherwise I never would have expected you to come.”

“Of course I would come,” Miles interjected.

“I tried to wait up but I guess I fell asleep, since you took longer than the two minutes I was expecting,” Waylon explained. When he walked back into view he was wearing a clean shirt and khaki pants instead of his cozy pajamas.

“Where are you going?” Miles asked, staring up at his friend.

“Work?”

“You can't go to work, you look like the you lost a boxing match,” Miles said. Waylon rolled his eyes and walked slowly toward his closet. “Wait, you're limping?”

“That was my fault too,” Waylon said, digging through his closet until he found a brown belt. “I tried to stop Eddie by putting my foot in the door, but he had already slammed it before he realized. I don't think he even knows he hurt my foot. And it was not that bad honestly, I think it's just bruised.”

Miles stood up and grabbed both of Waylon's arms, causing his friend to pause in the act of buckling his belt. Miles gripped tighter until Waylon met his eyes. “Park, this is a bad situation. You should stay away from Eddie until he's back on his medications and in a better state of mind. I understand he has issues, but that doesn't mean you have to bear the brunt of those issues.”

Waylon sighed and  _ tsk _ ed softly. “We've been over this before Miles. I'm with Eddie now, and I am happy.”

“Are you?!” Miles practically yelled in Waylon's face.

“Yes,” the smaller man snapped back, jerking his body out of Miles' grip and limping into the main area leaving Miles standing alone in the bedroom in his same wrinkled clothes. Miles had no choice but to stalk after his friend, scowling. “I take it things did not go well with your Leadville seduction then?”

“Wha...Why does that even matter?”

“Because Miles,” said Waylon, fidgeting with the coffee maker. “If you had someone else in your life, you wouldn't be here right now trying to convince me to leave Eddie for your own selfish reasons.”

“My own...my own selfish reasons? Are you fucking kidding me?” Miles felt ready to explode and it was a dangerous way for him to feel considering his lack of sleep and stressful evening the night before. “You have a goddamn black eye and a limp after your boyfriend's latest temper tantrum and you think I want you to leave him so I can fuck you again? Quit flattering yourself Park, it wasn't  _ that _ good.”

“You're having your own tantrum right now. Get the hell out, Miles,” Waylon snapped from the kitchen, the coffee maker behind him gurgling to life. “I thought I could trust you and that you were my friend, but you're just over here being a jackass  _ per usual _ .”

Miles stared at the ground, clenching his fists as he considered what to do next.

“What happened to you anyways, Miles?” Waylon asked, some of the anger leaving his voice. “You used to be nicer. It seemed like you were finally getting happier.”

_ I used to have you _ , Miles thought. The realization made him only feel more depressed. “I'm sorry Park. I just care about you. ”

Waylon considered his friend for a moment, pausing to find two coffee mugs. The gesture was an unspoken acceptance of Miles' apology. “I care about you, too. I'm here for you.”

“I suspect Eddie is hiding out with his crew, afraid I am going to press charges or something ridiculous...” Waylon said.

“...yeah, ridiculous...” Miles said, shaking his head.

“It was not his fault. Don't worry about me,” Waylon said, handing Miles a full mug of black coffee.

Miles took a long gulp of the scalding hot, bitter liquid. “Can't you just call off of work?” Miles coughed slightly at the rough feeling of the hot coffee.

“Uh, hello? I already put in my two week notice. I can't risk damaging relations with the bank. What if this new job is a bust and I need to go back there? I can't risk a bad reference or a burnt bridge. No, I won't miss any days until my two weeks are completed,” Waylon said, milling about the kitchen making toast while waiting for his coffee to cool. The blond added a huge portion of milk to his own drink, as well as two generous spoonfuls of sugar. “Sorry this is so far out of your way.”

“It's done now,” Miles muttered, wondering how Billy was feeling that morning. Did the Walrider really keep hangovers and headaches away? Everyone in America would want one...

“How's the investigation going?” Waylon asked, eating some toast.

“You wouldn't believe me if I told you,” Miles said, punctuating the sentence with a sip of coffee.

“Okay I have to run to work. Let yourself out. Hey, do you think you'll stick around for a while? Maybe we could have dinner together?”

“I would like that,” Miles said quietly. Waylon gathered up his work satchel and winter gear before leaning in to give Miles a peck on the cheek, though the reporter turned at the last minute allowing their lips to meet.

Waylon chuckled and shook his head. “Cute Miles,” he deadpanned. “See you tonight. Can you call me if you see Eddie show up here?”

“Sure,” Miles grumbled as his friend walked out the door.

Miles sipped his coffee and snooped around Waylon's apartment. The magnetic letters on the fridge spelled out “eddie luvs way nd poo.” There was a framed picture of Eddie Gluskin glaring at the camera while Waylon smiled happily from within Eddie's choking grip around his neck. Miles knew he was jealous of anyone who got to hold Waylon, but there was more to it. He disliked the relationship because he wanted Waylon safe and happy, even if it wasn't with him. Miles felt disquieted in his heart as long as Waylon defended his abusive relationship. Miles chose to stay in Waylon's life rather than abandon him for his poor choice in men. But it hurt to watch.

Miles eventually left Waylon's apartment and walked over to his own. They lived in the same complex. It was how they had originally met and developed their friendship the previous year. Miles walked inside his own apartment and stared blankly at the mess. He rarely bothered to clean. Laundry was a monthly affair. He had left his suitcase and belongings in Leadville, but Miles decided to take a few different sweaters back with him to diversify his wardrobe. He took a shower, thankful to have all his own soaps present, and even shaved his face.

Billy was always clean shaven. Did he prefer his men to have beards or not? Hmm. Miles fired off a text message to Billy's phone number.

_ Do you like beards? _

He continued milling about the apartment, tidying up (slightly) and opening his laptop to do some work. If he wanted funds deposited into his bank account that Friday, Miles needed to ensure that all of his required posts were done satisfactorily. After he made some posts, Miles pulled up the document he had started regarding the Murkoff lead. He considered adding in the part about Billy being the host for the Walrider and Wernicke somehow being the longest lived human on earth, but something stopped him.

Billy was a good grandson. He was kind, caring, responsible...if Murkoff got hold of him, they would turn him into a science experiment. Still, whatever those tendrils were, and if they really could keep headaches away, maybe that was something that could benefit mankind. Something he definitely was not comfortable handing over to Murkoff.

Then again, Miles had gone to Leadville looking for a story, and he had found the story that could change his entire life. If he was able to expose Murkoff and end them once and for all, he would be able to write whatever he wanted and be a respected journalist. He would finally get recognition and money. Would Waylon choose him then? Miles shook the intrusive thought out of his head.

Since he was in town, Miles decided it was past time he paid a visit to his favorite dickhole in the entire universe. Miles drove his jeep and parked in an empty spot clearly marked “Employee of the Month.” Miles strode through the double glass doors like he was strutting down a runway in his ordinary jeans and black sweater. He rode the express elevator to the executive floor and walked confidently up to the secretary's desk.

“Excuse me,” the twenty something brunette asked, giving a frightened deer-in-headlights look. “Do you have an appointment?”

“Yes. Tell Mr. Blaire that Mr. Ferguson is here to visit,” Miles said.

“Can I get a first name?” the receptionist asked.

“Turd,” said Miles, taking one of the open seats and reaching for a magazine. Within a minute he heard the young woman talking into the intercom.

“Mr. Blaire, there is a Mr. Turd Ferguson here to see you,” the secretary whispered into the intercom on her desk. “He said he has an appointment.”

“Send Mr. Upshur in, Miss Pond,” the answering response blared over the speaker.

“Um,” Ms. Pond stood up behind her desk and looked uncomfortably at Miles. “Mr. Ferguson? Mr. Upshur? Mr. Blaire will see you now.”

Miles flashed a roguish grin at the young lady as he walked down the hall and directly into the double doors at the end of the hall. “Jer,” announced Miles with false exuberance. “So great to see you. I suppose.”

“Mr. Upshur. To what do I owe the displeasure?” asked Jeremy Blaire wearing his black suit with his black hair slicked back in place and dead blue eyes devoid of any emotion.

“I just came to chat Jer. What's up? Anything new? That secretary looks new. Nice tits,” said Miles.

“Did you just come here to irritate me, Mr. Upshur? Or do you have some new accusation?” asked Blaire, his expression never changing from its false politeness. “Going to write a story about how Murkoff gave too much money to charity last Winter? Possibly you are upset that the patients of Mount Massive aren't allowed to walk freely to town and eat double helpings of dessert?”

“Not one for small talk. I like that about you Jer. I'm actually here to ask you about Project Walrider,” said Miles.

“Project what?” Jeremy asked, raising a polished black eyebrow.

“PROJECT WALRIDER,” Miles cupped his hands and yelled. “Didn't realize you were hard of hearing. Side-effect of always having your head up your own ass? Project Walrider? Remember? Murkoff was trying to produce human nanite factories a few decades back using the research of Rudolf Wernicke? Surely that name rings a bell. He's dead right, no chance he's alive?”

“Now you sound like one of our patients at Mount Massive, Mr. Upshur,” grinned Mr. Blaire. “Rudolf Wernicke has been dead for over a decade. He was already over the age of one hundred when he died. If he were still alive, why, he would be the oldest living man in history.”

“I know, right?” Miles grinned. “That would make be an awesome story. You know what else would be awesome? What if Project Walrider was actually a success? What are the odds that say, Murkoff resurrected this old project and set up base around Mount Massive conducting unethical experimentation? The kind of practice that was supposed to have been stamped out before Murkoff even came to Colorado. I bet proof of such a thing would be worth a small fortune—to you, the the national media, to the government. I don't suppose you have proof hanging around in that pretty new asylum you guys bought? If you have nothing to hide, surely I could just take a look?”

Jeremy Blaire laughed, and it reminded Miles of a snake hissing at a creature that was certain to be devoured. “Mr. Upshur, if you had verifiable proof that Project Walrider was a success, you could name your price. We would put it on the shelf next to the proof of the Abominable Snowman, Bigfoot and Nessie. Because it's impossible. Rudolf Wernicke has been dead for over a decade and the project was ended because it was unsuccessful. Forget how you learned all that information, why on earth would you come in here and ask such a ludicrous question?”

“So coy, I love it. Look, Mount Massive was not some personal attack as I originally deluded myself into believing. I won't stop Jer. I won't stop until you assholes are exposed for the monsters you are,” Miles said, gray eyes glaring across the executive desk. “You may block me from walking in the front door of the asylum, but we both know I have no problem coming in the back door. I'll find a way to break you down.”

Jeremy hummed to himself. “Is this still about Walker?” Miles inhaled sharply at the name. Blaire shook his head sadly, giving a dramatic sigh. “I wish I had better news for you Mr. Upshur, but Walker is a lost cause. He's attending group therapy. He has a private therapist. He is on an impressive collection of drugs...even electric shock therapy.” Miles grunted at the last part. “Despite all our best efforts, he is still growing sicker. I know you witnessed much of his breakdown, but trust me, it has gotten worse. He's required to wear a unique mouthpiece to stop him from chewing away his own lips. He was restrained from harming himself...but he continued to chew away at his own lips and cheeks,” sighed Jeremy Blaire. “Such a sick individual. It's lucky Mount Massive Asylum had some openings. And it's lucky that Murkoff took over that struggling facility, to ensure that patients, like Mr. Walker, receive the best care available.”

Miles glared at Blaire with barely contained rage. “Wernicke thought that insane patients could be potential hosts for the Walrider Project. You are still using his research. That's why you wanted Mount Massive Asylum.”

Jeremy Blaire laughed, and it was a false sounding reverberation deep within his chest. “Mr. Wernicke is dead, and so is his research. Mount Massive was acquired as part of our charity initiative. We want to make a difference, Mr. Upshur.” Jeremy moved his right hand to his left chest, where theoretically he would have had a heart.

“Fuck you, Jer,” Miles spat across the executive desk. “I know what I know. I could bring you guys down. What's it worth to you to keep it under wraps, dickwad?”

“Like I said, if you had  **proof** of the  **impossible** , you could name your price, Mr. Upshur,” said Blaire, his false crocodile smile back on his face. “Now, I do hope you'll excuse me. But I have meetings with people that actually offer something to this organization, instead of a reporter with an inflated ego believing he can prove that aliens really exist.”

“The truth is out there,” Miles said, smiling as he stood up and let himself out of the office. Jeremy Blaire was paid for his unflappable poker face. He knew more than he let on about Project Walrider. The fact that he had insisted so many times that the project was dead caused Miles' reporter-sense to flair. Maybe Jer had let slip more than intending by defending the project too fiercely.

Miles went back to his apartment to consider what he knew about he situation. Wernicke was not dead but rather had faked his death to protect Billy once he became the host for Project Walrider. What makes someone a good host? Why Billy? If it was really over ten years ago the boy would have only been around eleven years old. What was a child doing involved in some kind of experimental research in the first place? If Miles could expose Project Walrider to the media with proof that they were still researching it using non-consenting mental patients, he could save the patients suffering and pain. He would gain recognition as a reporter. And possibly he could bring enough bad press to Murkoff that they would shut down permanently or move off of US soil. Now, that would be a win for Miles.

But what about Billy? What would happen to the sweet young man if he was discovered to be housing that monster? Surely he would become a human guinea pig. Is that what Wernicke had sought to prevent by dragging the poor kid out to the middle of nowhere?

Miles' phone vibrated indicating a message and he was actually hoping it was Billy with the verdict on whether he liked beards or not, but it was from Waylon.

_ I'm bringing home phad thai, you bring the beer. Thank you for helping me today! _

A kissy face smiley ended the message.

_ It's a date _ , he replied. 

 


	6. Sick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-Con warning went up, sorry for the lateness. Miles is making really bad decisions...sorry...

“I thought you watched this show when it was first on,” Miles complained, forking another helping of noodles into his face and then immediately gulping his beer. “Fuck, why do you like your pad thai so spicy!”

“This isn't even as spicy as I usually get it, you baby,” teased Waylon, eating his own dinner out of a Styrofoam container on his lap. The pair was sitting on the couch in Waylon's apartment eating take-out, drinking beer, and watching _The Office_. “Lots of people re-watch shows that they enjoy.”

“Not me,” Miles said, shoving more noodles into his maw. “Once it's off air and I've seen it all, it's dead to me.”

“Oh, you liar, I see you watching repeat episodes of _Golden Girls_ all the time,” Waylon said, putting his half empty container on the coffee table in his living room and standing up. “I'm getting another beer. You want one?”

“Sure. Thank you for being a friend,” Miles said, draining the last sip in his current beer and handing the empty bottle to Waylon. “Don't recycle that.”

“I'm going to recycle that,” Waylon glared as he walked out of the room holding the two bottles. “You're so lazy not to even bother to separate the easiest recyclables. Mother Earth is going to be pissed at you.”

“I'm a busy man,” Miles said, his attention being ripped away from the television when Waylon put a cold bottle up next to his clean shaven cheek, making him jump. “Thanks,” Miles deadpanned taking the beer.

Waylon chuckled, taking a rather long drink from his own beer. “How are the blogs?”

“Soul crushing. You should slow down on the beers,” Miles commented as Waylon sat down on the couch next to him, scooting closer than he would normally sit. Miles pushed his own container of noodles onto the table and slid an arm around Waylon to make them more comfortable. “You are a lightweight.”

Waylon hummed at the sentiment. “Eddie still hasn't called.”

“I'm sorry. Maybe it's for the best...”

“Don't say that. I just hope Eddie does not suspect that we are spending time together. He might feel threatened,” Waylon said.

“Threatened? He's threatened by me? Does he know that we slept together?”

“Hell no! He would not want me spending time with you if he knew,” Waylon said.

“Why not? You chose him over me from the very start,” Miles said, drinking deeply to wash out the taste of bitterness that bubbled inside of him at the admission.

“Oh hush, I didn't _choose_ anyone. You were still visiting Chris when I met Eddie. You considered you two still in a relationship,” Waylon's face was flushed from drink. Miles thought it made him look even cuter than usual.

“Yeah. I was a fucking idiot,” sighed Miles. “I thought if I kept visiting maybe he would get better. Every visit he recognized me less and less. I went to see Jeremy today...”

“Jeremy Blaire?” Waylon interjected, his face wrinkling in disgust. “Why would you voluntarily spend time with that dick?”

“Threatened him with some of what I found out. I think he restarted Project Walrider. Some kind of weapon research. Now he knows that I am onto him. I was hoping to goad him into admitting something, but he's too good at what he does,” Miles said. “He told me that Chris has gotten worse. Apparently he's resorted to eating away at his own lips and cheeks. So bad that he needed specialized restraints on his face.”

“Oh Miles,” Waylon said, nuzzling his head against his friend's shoulder. “Jeremy's a dick to say something like that, even if it turns out to be true. I'm so sorry. Are you okay?”

“I would feel better if I could drag those corrupt bastards down,” Miles said, drinking his beer with the arm that was not around Waylon. “I know they're restarting that project. I just don't know if he knows why it was shut down in the first place. I highly doubt it, considering his reaction today.”

“Is that good?” Waylon asked, drinking the last of his third beer. He leaned forward to place it on the table and missed, dropping it onto the carpet with a thud.

“I don't know. I guess it gives me the upper hand on that secret information, but I'm not sure how I can use it to expose what he has going on now. I'm heading back to Leadville in the morning. Maybe my source can give me more information to help me shut the project down for good,” Miles said.

Waylon yawned and laid his head on Miles' shoulder. “You'll make it right Miles. I believe in you.”

Miles highly doubted that his friend had intended to allude to the conversation they had when they first met, but hearing Waylon say those words brought him right back to that cold night on the roof. Miles felt considerably less comfortable. He retreated into his own head, reliving that night. The night he met Waylon. _The Office_ came to an end, and Miles realized that Waylon had fallen asleep on him. He sighed. Typical.

Miles stood up carefully and laid Waylon out gently, his head at one end of the couch and Miles sitting at the opposite with Waylon's legs in his lap. Another episode was already starting, but Miles was distracted by the close proximity of his sleeping friend.

It was painful—physically painful—for Miles to sit so close to Waylon and watch him sleeping peacefully. Painful because Miles had to hold himself back from touching his neighbor in any way that could be deemed inappropriate while everything in him screamed to reach out. Miles could not be sure if Waylon had dozed off or passed out from drinking. Miles did not want to leave; he resisted whispering Waylon's name or shaking him to find out if he was sleeping. Instead, Miles just watched. It was just an innocent gaze on his friend's sleeping face with its splotchy bruise. An innocent gaze, yet Miles felt guilty. Very guilty. Why should he have to feel so guilty? Was it some kind of crime to look at Waylon and feel attracted to him?

Well, if Miles had to feel so goddamn guilty about it, he might as well do something to make himself legitimately guilty. It was horrible reasoning, but Miles had been drinking. He indulged his sickness for a moment by leaning over to swipe an errant lock of hair away from Waylon's bruised eye. The man barely stirred when Miles tucked the hair behind his ear, fingers lightly following the shell of his friend's ear. Miles leaned in close, adjusting himself on the couch, until each exhaled breath was right against Waylon's lips. He knew it was wrong; he knew he shouldn't. Miles pressed his lips to Waylon's anyways.

One kiss. That's all Miles meant to allow himself. He considered it a goodbye kiss to help put some closure behind his complicated feelings for Waylon. He hadn't anticipated lithe arms wrapping around his neck or lips moving lazily against his. He could not have foreseen the way his neighbor responded to the warmth of a body hovering just over his on the couch. When Miles settled his weight on top of Waylon, his neighbor let out a breathy sigh and Miles took advantage of the opening to taste Waylon's mouth.

Why was it so much better than Miles remembered? They had kissed and touched and fucked that night on camera, but it had been so casual and playful. Having Waylon under him that night was much different. It was wrong, his subconscious repeated insistently, but Miles was helpless to stop. Encouraged by Waylon's actions, conscious or not, Miles sucked and kissed along Waylon's exposed neck. His hips had a mind of their own, grinding down on the supine man beneath him. “Waylon,” he moaned softly against his neighbor's neck, the name foreign on his tongue since he rarely called him by his first name. It felt good. Miles needed to stop. _Had_ to stop before things went too far.

But Waylon responded to his actions by emulating them, bucking his hips up to meet Miles' and letting out a soft moan that set Miles' blood on fire. The reporter was careful not to leave any marks that could raise unwanted questions. He needed to stop, but felt powerless, like a recovering addict in the grip of a relapse. He wanted to overdose on Waylon.

It was okay as long as he did not touch Waylon, Miles rationalized in his sick brain. Each excuse he concocted was more pathetic than the last. He was a pathetic being in that moment—humping Waylon while he was passed out. But it was okay as long as no one knew and no one got hurt, Miles lied to himself. He thrust a hand down his pants, groaning at the feeling of even just his own hand. His back hunched as he stroked himself while straddling Waylon. He continued to kiss and lick at his neighbor's lips and neck while he debased himself. It did not take long before Miles was biting back a moan and jumping back to catch his seed before it could sully anything in his neighbor's apartment.

Miles walked to the kitchen in a sweaty daze, washing his hands in the sink, and the full realization of what he had done threatened to crush him. Shame. Disgust. He hated himself so much in that moment. He walked to the door, putting on his jacket, and left the apartment, locking the door behind him. He didn't deserve Waylon's friendship. He could not stay the night and see his friend's unassuming face in the morning. Miles knew he was acting like a pathetic piece of shit.

He shuffled over to his own apartment and prepared to sleep off the beer he had drank. He would leave for Leadville first thing in the morning. He would delete that video of him and Waylon. He would be a friend and try to help Waylon with his relationships without always selfishly trying to claim his friend as his own. Or maybe better yet, he would leave Waylon alone. Miles was a walking disaster. Using his friend like some kind of masturbatory aid against his will was a new low.

Miles found his own collection of bourbon and skipped the cup, drinking long and deep until he managed to pass out on his own filthy couch, swimming in self-loathing.

When he awoke, Miles' head felt like it was filled with cotton and being rung by a hammer at every heartbeat. For a few blessed minutes, Miles felt tired and fuzzy, trying to remember the previous evening. Then the avalanche of self-disgust hit him and threatened to crush him when he remembered Waylon. Miles packed up his belongings. He had to get out of town. He would run from his problems. It wouldn't be the first time.

Miles sat in his own dirty kitchen, glaring at the tabletop. He could leave town. He could change his number, break his lease, and never see Waylon Park ever again. Miles put his elbows on the table and hung his pounding head in his hands. No. Not after everything they had been through together. He could never do that successfully.

He could pretend that nothing happened. If Waylon had no memories, what was the harm? A little bit of self hatred was nothing to Miles, just add it to the mountainous pile already weighing on his conscience. But then what if Waylon one day was single, could Miles really offer himself to his friend and live with the daily reminder of the wrongs he had committed? Well, maybe. Miles was finding avoidance and denial to be the easiest option.

That was only because the arguably _best_ option sounded so...bleak. Miles had to confront Waylon. He would admit his transgressions and ask forgiveness. Not just the night before; he would lay it all out: the video, the fantasies, the reality of his feelings. Their friendship was strained to breaking because Miles could not handle being just friends any longer. Either Waylon could share the feelings, or else his friend would have to agree to help Miles get over him through distance and time.

That's assuming Waylon did not spit in his face when he admitted what a disgusting pig he had been. He chuckled to himself in his apartment alone. Pig. Yeah, Chris had been right all along. It was a fitting nickname after all.

It took a heavy shot of Irish cream in his morning coffee before Miles worked up the courage to walk down the hall to Waylon's apartment. He packed up his belongings and put them in his Jeep before preparing for the confrontation. Miles needed to be ready to run just in case the reaction to his sinful confession was a violent one. He would not even blame Waylon. It was possible they would have matching black eyes by the end of the day.

Miles knocked on Waylon's apartment, 2536, and waited. His nerves made it impossible to stand still as he waited, pacing in front of the door. His heart leaped into his throat at the sound of Waylon's door opening. He started to open his mouth to greet his friend, but stopped suddenly and stared. Eddie Gluskin answered the door with wet hair and a towel around his waist.

“Uhhhh...” Miles momentarily lost the ability to form coherent sentences. Eddie Gluskin was probably 6'5” with washboard abs, chiseled muscles, and a striking jawline. The tiny white towel hanging off his hip bones was too much for even a straight man. Miles could not stop staring, though instead of desire he was flooded with depression. So that's what Waylon saw in Eddie. “I...uhh...dammit, Gluskin, put some pants on.”

“You stopped by to tell me to put on pants?” Eddie asked, raising an eyebrow. Miles glared at the man, aware of how blue and hypnotic his eyes were, made more mysterious by the wet black strands glistening on his forehead. Miles was accustomed to Eddie resembling a biker goon with his frown and slicked black hair. It was disconcerting to see him looking like some kind of sex god washed up from a shipwreck.

“No, dammit, I need to talk to Park. What are you even doing here? I saw what you did to his face,” Miles sneered, forcing himself to look at Eddie's face and not check on whether or not that towel was going to hold.

“I do not see how our personal relationship is any of your business. And Waylon is a bit indisposed at the moment,” Eddie said, the smug tone grating on Miles' nerves. Eddie leaned slightly closer to whisper conspiratorially, “just out of the shower.” The following wink made Miles seethe internally.

“Well, get him. I need to talk to him about something private,” Miles said, trying to look around Eddie in hopes of catching a glimpse of Waylon wandering around in a similar state of undress. Eddie seemed to notice his intent and leveled a murderous glare at Miles.

Eddie stood immovable for several heartbeats before shrugging his massive, bare shoulders and shutting the door until it was only open a tiny crack. Miles heard him call out into the apartment, “Darling? Someone bothersome is here for you...”

Seconds later Waylon appeared at the door. “Bothersome?” he asked before flinging the door open. “Hey! Miles. Sorry I passed out last night. I'm really thankful that you stuck around even though I was being such a downer.” Waylon was wearing blue plaid boxers and a plain white t-shirt. His blond hair was still wet indicating he had most likely been in the shower at the same time as Eddie.

“I see Eddie's back,” Miles stated, glancing where he could see Eddie disappear down the hallway that led into Waylon's bedroom.

“Yeah, he showed up early this morning and apologized. Poor thing, I think he was hurting more than I was,” Waylon said, causing Miles to stare at the bruised eye that was still painfully purple. “You leaving town again, or what? I'm leaving for work soon but we could all hang out after five o'clock if you want...”

“Look,” Miles said, feeling flustered that Eddie's return had thrown a considerable wrench in his plan. “I _hate_ the way Eddie treats you. But I'm no better. I came by to apologize to you.”

Waylon's green eyes were gloriously wide and bright. “Whaaa...”

“I'm sorry, Park,” Miles pressed on. “I have not been a good friend to you.” Miles clenched his fists and forced himself to continue, though he was unable to continue meeting his friend's eyes. “I don't want to be friends. I want more. I thought I could handle not having you that way, but I...I'm sick. I can't remember a time I got myself off without thinking of you. I watch our video...way more than I ever should...”

“I thought that video got deleted! Oh my God you still _have_ it...” Waylon interjected, though Miles ignored the interruption.

“And last night, I...you were passed out and I...” Miles closed his eyes, preparing for a slap, “...I kissed you. You were passed out and I kissed you. And I got off on it.”

When the slap did not come, Miles slowly opened his eyes and saw Waylon staring at him like a deer stuck in headlights. The most adorable pink blush Miles had ever seen crept onto his friend's cheeks. “Miles...that's...that's not right.”

“I know. You trust me, you had no reason to know what a disgusting pervert I was and I...I'm sorry. I know it's probably too little too late but I am sorry. I can't be your friend. I'm leaving town. I'm sorry. I need you to keep your distance for a while. I'd understand if you never even wanted to see me again. So. I'm sorry,” Miles said, turning to walk away from the door and down the stairs. There really was not anything else to say and he was beginning to doubt he could keep himself from begging for forgiveness and abandoning the last shred of dignity he had left.

He had not expected the bare feet running behind him down the cold concrete breezeway, though he probably should have.

“Miles. **Miles**. Do not walk away, asshole, what, what is your _problem_ , please don't be like this,” Waylon pleaded, keeping up with Miles. The reporter continued to walk and ignore his friend until he reached the stairs that would lead him down to the parking lot. Miles took a deep breath and turned to look at Waylon seeing only fear and concern.

“Okay, so we need to discuss some boundaries,” Waylon started, talking faster than usual, “but, we can still be friends. Even if there's space, we will still be friends. You're not thinking about... _that_...again are you? You're not going to do anything permanent, right?” Waylon asked, his arms wrapping around himself as he shivered in the chilly morning while under-dressed with dripping wet hair.

“No. I'm not going back up to the roof,” Miles assured Waylon before turning to walk down the stairs. He was stopped by a frigid hand grabbing for his own.

“Miles! Don't leave like this. Come in and have some coffee, we can talk about this more. I can be late to work. Eddie's on his way out and we can talk in private, we can...”

Miles glared at Waylon, effectively stopping his friend's thoughts as they held eye contact. Miles launched himself at Waylon without warning, wrapping his arms around the barely dressed man and covering Waylon's lips with his own. For a brief moment, Waylon went stiff as a board, before melting into Miles' arms. Miles' lips moved over Waylon's and he pressed their bodies together.

Waylon's lips were soft and cold from the air. He tilted his head as his eyes fluttered close, happily sinking into Miles' arms and returning his kiss. Memories of the previous evening flew to Miles' mind. The sting of disgust caused Miles to growl as he resumed where he had left off, kissing a hot trail across Waylon's cold skin. Waylon's mouth flew open as he inhaled sharply. Miles mistook Waylon's hands on his shoulder as encouragement until he realized his friend was calling his name repeatedly...

“Miles! Miles, are you drunk? You smell like a distillery,” Waylon chided, pulling himself away from Miles' possessive embrace and trying to make light of the slip.

The pair separated with a disgusted groan from Miles. “Do you see now? This isn't a joke, these are my real feelings. I can’t be around you, I’m not well. I'm leaving.”

“Wait!”

“I'm going back to Leadville. Don't call me; I'll call you when I want to talk,” Miles muttered, stomping down the stairs while Waylon called after him.

“You better call! You know I will worry about you! It's okay Miles, everything is okay, I don't hate you, we can still work through this, I will give you space but please, you have to call, I will worry so much and...”

It became background noise. Static. Atmospheric interference happening around him but not affecting him any longer. Miles got into his Jeep and drove back to Leadville. Once he arrived, he could not remember a single detail about the journey. He also had no recollection of consciously deciding to go to Billy's house before checking back in at his own motel room, but he found himself turning down the familiar dirt drive.

Miles drove out to the house and banged on the door. The old truck was parked outside, meaning Billy was not out with the cows. When no one came to the door, Miles knocked again. “Billy,” he shouted. “Billy, I need to talk to you. I know you're probably mad but...”

The door opened and Miles realized he had not heard all of the locks. Once the door was ajar, Billy practically fell into Miles' arms. “What the fuck?” Heat was radiating off the boy's body. Billy was only wearing a stained white shirt and flannel pajama pants, but he was burning up. His face was paler than usual and his entire body covered in a sheen of sweat that caused his glasses to slip down his nose.

“Can you get me back to the couch?” Billy asked in a tremulous voice. Miles nodded and wrapped Billy's arm around his shoulder. The tall young man was a lot more difficult to carry than Waylon had been. “Hurry,” Billy encouraged. Miles grumbled to himself as he hauled Billy to the couch and helped him sit down. No sooner had Miles stood back up than Billy doubled over a trash-can and wretched loudly.

“Uh, are you contagious?” Miles asked, taking a step back. His face went blank as he stared at the thick, black sludge Billy wiped from his mouth.


	7. Chicken Soup for the Walrider

“What...”

Billy chuckled as he collapsed on the couch. “Body got a little unbalanced with the moonshine. Swarm seems to have malfunctioned a little. Grandfather doesn't really know why it happens, but it does sometimes.” Miles could see that Billy's hand was trembling.

“Are you going to be alright?” Miles asked, coming closer to the couch and staring at the black sludge in the pail.

“Who knows. Probably. Could you help me with grandfather? I'm not strong enough to...” Billy cut himself off when his body convulsed and he was forced to vomit up another thick stream of black slime. He struggled to expel the substance. It seemed much stickier than normal human vomit.

Miles rushed through the kitchen into Wernicke's room. “Listen old man, I need to know what's happening to Billy out there. He's throwing up black stuff like something out of _The Exorcist_.”

Wernicke wheezed from his life-support chair. A twitch of his finger had him turning to face Miles, his eternally blank face still slack and pale. “Billy is the host. The host's body is a home for a swarm of nanites. There's never been anyone like him before in the history of the world. No one can know everything that could possibly happen.” Several red warning lights blinked on the monitor connected to Wernicke’s chair.

“Well, you wanna make an educated fucking guess? It looks like he's dying,” Miles said, pushing his hand through his dirty hair as he tried to form a plan.

“Many subjects exposed to the Morphogenic Engine would experience growth of lead tumors instead of producing functioning nanites,” said Wernicke, his German accent growing thicker as he spoke of past events. “This made them unsuitable hosts. Billy's body never formed these cancers, but over the years I have observed times when the nanites malfunctioned. Instead of turning into deadly lesions, Billy's body seems to dispose of the faulty machines while producing new ones to heal any potential damage. That's only a hypothesis. He has not been scanned for growths since leaving the laboratory, but in all other subjects they were visible and accompanied by bronchial accumulation—neither of these symptoms have I ever observed with Billy.”

“Jesus...is that what he is to you? A living science experiment? Is that why you keep him out here away from people?” Miles demanded.

“I care for him like a son. It is for his own survival and well-being,” Wernicke spat, the machines picking up in volume as his vitals surged.

“Okay, calm down, don't need you blowing a fuse. You need some help in here before I help him?” Miles asked, impatiently.

“The manual is by the bed,” Wernicke said, flicking his finger to turn his chair toward the nightstand. Miles retrieved it and set about dealing with the warning levels. There were bags to be hung, liquid food to be fed, and oxygen to be regulated. Miles was still fussing over the machinery when Wernicke finally dismissed him rudely. “Billy needs help now. The host suffers,” the old man’s wheezing voice seemed to crack with emotion. “He suffers probably more than he ever lets show.”

Miles stopped in the kitchen and searched the cabinets. He found a can of chicken soup and heated it in the microwave. He did not know if whatever crazy imbalance Billy was experiencing could be helped the same way as the common cold, but Miles felt far out of his element. Miles set the steaming soup on the table and squeezed onto the couch near where Billy lay, exhausted.

“Hey kid,” Miles smiled gently down at Billy. “I brought you soup. How long have you been like this?”

“Since the moonshine,” Billy said. Miles felt unbelievably guilty to think he had abandoned his new friend to this type of suffering all alone, especially considering Miles' gift had caused it.

“Fuck, I'm sorry,” Miles said, moving his hand over Billy's sweaty brow. “I guess the soup is a pretty lame apology, but you should eat some.” Miles smiled as he brought the soup bowl to his lap and moved a spoon of hot liquid to his lips to blow gently. “Hope you like chicken noodle. That’s all that was in the cabinet.” Miles gently put the spoon to Billy's lips and tilted. The boy noisily slurped up the broth.

“Thank you. I'm starving,” Billy admitted. Miles patiently continued to feed the boy one spoonful at a time. Billy accepted the food and the care, until Miles was feeding him the last noodle in the bowl. Miles fetched a glass of water, and Billy quickly drained the contents..

Billy laid back while Miles walked to the boy's bedroom and returned with a pillow. Miles propped Billy up and with the cushions until he looked more comfortable.

“Do you suffer like this often?” Miles asked quietly as Billy lay resting but awake.

“Sometimes. It comes and goes,” Billy said softly. “Part of being the host, grandfather says.”

“Does it hurt?” Miles asked, pushing his fingers through Billy's hair, wavy and matted from sweat.

“Yes...” the whispered response was chilling and put a sense of cold dread inside of Miles. “It feels better now with you here.”

“You're just saying that,” Miles grinned, but Billy turned dark blue eyes on the reporter to convey the seriousness of his statement.

“You calm the swarm. The Walrider it...it likes you. I told you before,” Billy said looking away. It was impossible to know whether he was blushing or not considering how flushed his face was already.

“I know you did and I am so sorry I had to leave. My friend was hurt and I had to go and make sure he was alright. If I had known you were going to get sick, I would have come back sooner.” And possibly would have saved himself from an unforgivable sin. Miles sighed heavily. Billy looked much more comfortable; his body more relaxed.

“Was everything alright with your friend?” Billy asked. Miles just looked confused at Billy, wondering how he could bother thinking of anything but his own suffering during a time like that. “Sorry. I did not mean to pry, but you had said it was life or death.”

“Yeah,” Miles said finally, blowing out a long breath. “I was not much help. No. I probably ruined that friendship, to be honest. I'm...I'm not a very good person.”

“You're okay, Mister Upshur,” Billy said, moving a weak hand to lay on Miles' knee where he was sitting nearby on the couch. “I'm sure your friend appreciates you caring enough to try.”

“Yeah well, trying doesn't really help shit,” Miles said, frowning off into space.

“This is the friend that's with another man. I sense you have some unresolved feelings for this person,” Billys said. There was no jealousy or accusation in his tone, only friendly concern.

“Yeah,” Miles said under his breath. “I thought I only wanted to be his friend, but I was wrong. Did not figure it out until it was too late.” Billy hummed but said nothing else to interrupt the silence that followed as Miles paused, lost in his own mind. “I used to see his calls and think, _this_ is the one, this is the call when he's going to realize he's supposed to be with me. He's going to tell me that he never stopped loving me and we will be together finally.”

“You don't feel that way anymore,” Billy said, and it was a statement instead of a question. Miles looked at the fevered young man, wondering when he had become so easy to read.

“No. I don't. Now I see his call, and I worry every single goddamn time. I worry that it'll be the call when I learn that he's been found hurt or worse. He's in a bad situation. And I can't seem to help him escape it. I can't help him. I can't help Chris. I can't even seem to help myself.”

“You're helping me,” Billy said, giving a faint squeeze where his hand touched Miles. The reporter stared at that point of contact as though it was completely foreign. When was the last time anyone had comforted him? Before Waylon...he could not even remember.

“Why do you think it likes me?” Miles asked, staring down at the sick boy. “Hope it wasn't the beard since I shaved.”

Billy chuckled at the joke. He moved his warm hand to feel along Miles already scruffy cheek. “I think the swarm likes you because it can sense that you would make a good host. It's not human, you know. It is always calculating. Always most concerned about its continued existence.”

“A good host, huh? You're sure it couldn't be my good looks and winning personality?” Miles asked, making Billy chuckle. Miles sighed dramatically. “What makes a good host, then?” Miles asked, curious, leaning into the warm touch on his face without even realizing it.

“Broken people,” whispered Billy, turning sad blue eyes on Miles.

Miles' forehead creased with confusion. Broken people? “I don't understand,” Miles said, frowning.

“What happened to you, Mister Upshur? There are scars on you, not just your body,” Billy moved his hand slightly up to swipe brown hair away from Miles' brow, revealing his thick scar on his forehead. “Are there more?”

“Those scars are from a long time ago,” Miles protested. “I'm not...I'm not broken.”

“Can you tell me what happened?” Billy asked, his eyes patient and sincere.

“It was just a car accident. My parents both died in the wreckage. I got some nasty scars, but I was only four. I don't remember it,” Miles said, staring hard at the ground in Billy's living room.

“Yes, you do,” Billy said, gently.

Miles stared bewildered at the young man. “Is this some kind of Walrider side-effect? You can what, read minds?”

“You could say that, though it's not really as powerful as what you're probably imagining,” chuckled Billy.

“What number am I thinking of right now?” Miles demanded. Just to be difficult he thought of the Roman numeral X.

“That's not how it works,” Billy shook his head, though he was grinning. “I've learned things from others' thoughts and dreams, though I can't always direct it. I wish I could read minds. That would be helpful. No, I just know that the swarm feels you are a potential host. So there's definitely something there, no matter how you try to deny it. If you don't want to tell me, that's fine too.”

“No, it's not like that,” Miles said, pulling Billy's hand away from his face and holding it in his hand, fingers threading together. “I just, I don't tell anyone. Keep people far enough away and they won't ever bother to ask.”

Billy nodded, squeezing weakly at Miles' hand.

“The car was flipped in a ditch. It had been raining,” Miles began, his voice sounding flat in his own ears. He never talked about those memories. “My father died instantly in the collision. His head was completely smashed in, and he bled out. Blood pooled on the ceiling. When I remember that pile of bloody ground meat it's hard to even connect that it used to be my father. My mother, she was unconscious for a while. Kind of hanging out of her seat belt or maybe she had broken something. Her cheek was resting against the car ceiling. I was crying and screaming, but we were in a ditch no one could easily see plus the rainy conditions. I was just a kid.”

Miles paused, refusing to meet Billy's eyes. He should stop there. But he didn't. “My mother seemed to come to but she was injured, likely severe internal injuries. But she was still breathing when the mud and rain seeping in from the broken windows raised above her mouth level and I listened to her slowly choke to death. I was pinned in my car seat by a twisted piece of the car, that's what gave me this bitchin' scar on my face. I was in an upside down car with my two dead parents. No one found the wreckage for almost four full days. It felt like a lifetime.”

Billy's expression was sad, but not patronizing. He listened and nodded at the story, not giving any bullshit “I'm sorry” or some other useless sentiment. He just...listened.

“That had to be hard on you,” Billy said.

“No family to take me in. Ended up in foster homes. Some were pretty nice. Some were not as nice. Even the good ones, there was that distinct feeling of not belonging. Never finding a family,” Miles sighed, leaning back against the couch.

“You're sick, you don't want to hear me talk about such depression shit,” Miles said, feeling wetness gathering at the corners of his eyes. Tears? He never cried...

“Being near you makes the swarm quiet, so I would gladly listen to anything and nothing you wanted to say,” Billy admitted, taking deep breaths where he lay on the couch. Miles felt Billy’s skin again with a frown. “And besides, you're a reporter now. You've grown past those old injuries, no matter how severe.”

“Yeah. I guess my past kind of predisposed me for my job. I wanted to be out there in the world, on the battlefield, fighting for the forgotten and abused. I spent my twenties chasing after war crimes, genocides, and plagues. Maybe it was all that exposure that got the swarm to like me,” Miles chuckled at his non-joke. Truthfully, watching his ex-boyfriend's break down had affected him much more than any of the disasters he had documented. It was one thing to watch illness and death happen to people you did not know. It was another thing to find your boyfriend in the bathroom after having cut away his nose and part of his forehead with a straight razor while in a delusional state. The memory left Miles feeling cold. Miles desperately needed to change the subject.

“So what about you,” Miles asked, looking into fever-bright blue eyes. “You've been the host for over ten years. Did something bad happen to you too?

“Childhood scars, not always visible,” Billy said, his tone listless. “Yeah. I legitimately do not remember, though. My father he was, uh, well, arrested I suppose. They suspected him of some crimes. There was a witness who escaped him and claimed he had lured her into a van using a child as bait. He asked the woman to help with his son and she agreed only to find herself forced into the vehicle. He threatened to kill her, and had all sorts of horrifying equipment inside. She went to the police and my dad seemed to match the description.”

Billy shrugged in his seated position. “I was a kid, ya know? I didn't remember. But they I guess got this person skilled with hypnotism, able to get at subconscious memories. I still do not remember what happened, but I have seen the recordings. My father he...he used me as bait to lure women, and he killed them. His methods were...the stuff of nightmares. I witnessed it all. My descriptions and memories allowed the police to find almost a dozen graves. Some abandoned properties he used in the murders. Forensics proved the rest. Last I checked, he's still alive on death row.”

“Do you want to see him again, before they carry out the sentence?” Miles asked.

“No,” Billy said, shaking his head weakly. “I'd just carry out the sentence myself if I saw him.” Miles paused at the violent statement from the otherwise shy and gentle man.

“What about the therapy? Do you remember when you became the host?”

“I...I don't want to talk about that,” Billy said, shifting on the couch to look away from Miles.

“Is it because you hate being the host? The way you talked about it the other night, the Walrider seemed like a good deal. Cures hangovers?” Miles asked.

“Yeah, no hangover, but the occasional malfunction,” muttered Billy, wiping his mouth where remnants of the bile remained, sticky like tar. “I mean, it wants to continue existing, it wants to experience things. But it's complicated.”

“Everything about you is complicated,” Miles teased.

“I guess,” grinned Billy. “I just have given up on trying to have a normal existence. Grandfather was right to bring me out here. I'm not really cut out for human relationships or interactions. I help grandfather and the cows and just try to find peace in being this way; having this part of me that I cannot show anyone, knowing I will never have friendships or...lovers..and...once grandfather passes I will be alone...”

“He can't live forever,” Miles said gently.

“Why not?” Billy asked, turning back to stare at Miles.

“Uhh...because...nothing lasts forever? People die? Was that a serious question?”

“Yeah. Because I mean, the Walrider doesn't want to be alone. The nanites heal anything that threatens grandfather's life. I don't see why he cannot live forever...”

“You're keeping that man alive, that's how he's one hundred and twenty four years old?”

“Yeah,” Billy said, as though it was obvious. Billy gave an involuntary shiver and Miles felt his forehead again. He was hotter than any human Miles had ever felt. It reminded him of a motor overheating--even smelled faintly like one.

“You're burning up,” Miles worried.

“Thanks, I think you're hot too,” Billy whispered, shocking the reporter. “I'm feeling much stronger since you arrived, and fed me.”

“Yeah, but you still have a fever,” Miles muttered. “Think you could stand through a cool shower?”

Billy frowned as he considered it. “I'm nervous about standing too long or being uncomfortable in the water.”

“I'll help you,” Miles offered, forcing himself not to smile at the idea.

“Okay, Mister Upshur,” breathed Billy.

Billy was walking much better, though his grip on Miles' arm was tight and scalding hot. Miles ran the water until it was cool but still warm enough that he could stand the temperature. Miles undressed himself, noticing that Billy had paused in his own actions. It had been a while since anyone had looked at Miles that way. Billy's blue eyes were fever bright, but they dilated with desire at the sight of Miles stepping out of his clothes. Miles had almost forgotten how it felt to be wanted. Not to be teased or denied or ashamed of himself—only wanted. 

Miles helped Billy with his own clothes, reminding the boy of their true purpose. He stopped short when he laid eyes on the boy's bare torso. His body was lean and toned with much less hair than Miles had on his own chest, but a shocking myriad of scars adorned his young skin. A particularly wicked, raised scar marred his chest close to his heart and several other smaller scars were all over his upper arms and chest. Miles could not begin to imagine the purpose of the markings.

“What...” Miles started to ask.

“Old scars,” Billy said, his shoulders hunching over slightly in a self-conscious pose.

“You look good,” Miles assured the young man, smiling gently. “Since you're part machine it's important that you stay cool. Maybe it's not a fever, maybe you're overheating. You don't know.”

Soon Miles was pulling down his own underwear. He stood as tall and confident naked as he did fully clothed. The two nude men stepped into the tiny tile shower. The water immediately caused Miles to break out in goosebumps. It took a few seconds to get his breath back, and a few minutes to grow accustomed to the tepid temperature. Billy seemed considerably more at ease in the cool water, stepping in front of Miles and blocking most of the spray with his body.

“Thank you. Grandfather has been sickly since I lived with him. I can't remember a time someone actually cared for me while I was sick like this.”

“You usually have to suffer this alone?” Miles asked, getting as close to Billy as possible in the shower without touching him.

“I'm used to it.” Billy shrugged in front of Miles before ducking his head into the spray, causing Miles to crouch closer to Billy's back for shelter from the cold spray. Billy laughed at Miles cringing behind him. Billy washed out his mouth and gargled. Miles presumed it was to get rid of the taste of the strange bile. Considering it had smelled like burnt rubber, Miles doubted it tasted very good.

Miles grabbed the generic shampoo available and lathered up his hands before attacking Billy's wavy black hair. It was difficult to see the gray streaks when Billy's black hair was wet. Miles scratched Billy's scalp, massaging the soap into his hair. Billy sighed happily at the attention, turning his head and encouraging Miles’ kneading fingers. Once Miles withdrew his fingers, Billy obediently soaked his head in the spray one more time.

“I know I scared you the last time we were together…”Billy started.

“You scared me a little this time as well,” Miles interrupted.

“Well, since you came back, does this mean, you maybe do want to be with me too?” Billy asked, his voice timid.

“Some things happened in Denver. I'm not sure I am ready to be in a relationship with anyone. But if you don't mind something casual, I'm here,” Miles offered. Billy hummed at the offer but did not say anything else, standing still while the cool spray hit his his lowered head. Miles lathered his hands again. This time, Miles' hands slid around Billy's waist and up toward his shoulders, fingers mapping out the strange scars. “You should let me take care of you.”

Billy froze, but never refused the touches. He leaned back slightly to push his shoulder against Miles' chest. Miles continued to wash the younger man with his soapy hands. He traced over the hard planes of Billy's chest and down his trembling stomach. “You deserve to feel good Billy.” Miles guided his hand lower, feeling through Billy's pubic hair and then brushing against his stiffening length. “May I touch you?” Being proper was not really Miles' style, but neither was seducing virgins.

“Yes,” Billy whispered so low it was almost made inaudible by the spray from the shower. Billy was hard before Miles ever wrapped his soapy hand around his shaft. Miles stroked slowly up and down with a firm grip, pulling out a moan from Billy. “Mister Upshur that feels so good...”

“You need to call me Miles,” he grumbled, still stroking Billy. Miles pressed his body up behind Billy, dragging his teeth across young, supple skin. “You don't have to be alone forever. You're a good guy—you could find someone to trust.”

“But the Walrider...you're the first human other than grandfather that the swarm wanted to touch. Usually it only wants to keep other people away,” Billy said breathlessly as the cool spray cooled him down and Miles' touch heated him up.

“Then it's past time that someone touched you and made you feel good,” Miles muttered before biting down on Billy's shoulder. “I'm horrible to corrupt you.” Even as he muttered the self-deprecating statement, Miles stroked Billy. He hummed in pleasure when Billy thrust his hips upward into Miles' grip. “That's it. Take what's owed you.”

Miles was rubbing his hand up and down Billy's shaft and the boy managed to remain hard despite the tepid water. There was considerably less heat shared between their bodies, but Billy maintained without a pause. “The other night in my motel room,” Miles said, speaking close to Billy’s ear and keeping his voice low, “you wanted me to do this, didn't you?”

“The Walrider did,” Billy confessed, panting as Miles worked his length with his soapy hand.

“But you didn't?” Miles asked.

“I just wanted to kiss you,” Billy admitted, looking down in the shower, staring at Miles hand on him. The hand Miles did not have around Billy's dick came up to force the boy's chin far enough around that Miles could kiss him awkwardly.

“Then kiss me,” Miles murmured against Billy's cold lips. There was a distinct taste like rusted metal that had not been present the other times the two had locked lips. It was not necessarily off putting, though it was foreign and strange.

Miles' grip and movements quickened as he ground his own erection against Billy's bare ass. “If I really am the choice of the swarm, then your Walrider friend has terrible taste. I am the worst kind of person.”

“How can you say that,” Billy managed before devolving into animalistic moans in the shower.

“It's true,” Miles hissed, using his hand to bring Billy to the edge. The boy was a quivering mess. He was ready to fire and Miles' finger was on the trigger. “A good person would not do this to an innocent like you.” The words alone ripped the orgasm from Billy's body. The shower washed away the evidence of Billy's seed spraying the shower. It did not matter since no one else used the shower anyways. Miles turned the water off and stepped out of the shower. Billy remained there for several moments, his breath coming as ragged gasps.

Once Billy did emerge, Miles tossed him a towel and both men were soon dried and covered around the waist. “Do you want to go all the way?” Billy asked, catching Miles off guard as he lounged in his towel.

“You want me to fuck you?” Miles asked. He wasn't exactly against the idea, but Billy was sick and hadn't they just satiated that desire for at least a few minutes? Maybe Miles had forgotten what the sex drive of a twenty-one year old was like.

“Well...I mean...I just meant to warn you. Grandfather always said the Walrider tended to gravitate toward one host. He theorized the Walrider would also tend toward one mate,” Billy said, meeting Miles' eyes when he spoke of having one mate. “It is dangerous for someone the swarm does not approve of to be close to me. If you took the step to mate with me...there could be lasting effects you're not prepared to face.”

Billy was the only person to ever get Miles so immediately turned on, then so completely turned off. First he had to bail because Billy was a virgin, then because he housed a scientific experiment gone awry, and now Billy was basically stating that he mated for life and any coupling would be some kind of marriage vow. Who called sex mating anyways—especially two men? Billy was aware they could not mate right?

Miles hooked a hand around Billy's neck and pulled him closer. “Kiss now. Worry about the rest of that later.” Billy launched himself at the reporter and they shared a repeat of the previous day in the rain. Miles patiently directed Billy's over-enthusiastic lips and tongue until the young man was moaning quietly into the kiss. It continued for minutes until Miles broke the kiss and helped Billy change into clean pajamas and carefully tucked him into bed.  


	8. Not Natural

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's smut. The Walrider is involved. I regret nothing.

Miles agreed to stay at Billy's house that night to assist with caring for Wernicke. Billy had definitely earned a full night of sleep without constant interruptions. Wernicke required assistance with changing, cleaning, and transferring to a remote controlled hospital bed. Miles felt exhausted just reading over the instructions. How could Billy do all of that every day?

Wernicke did not sleep much. When Miles was changing over an oxygen tank at one in the morning, Wernicke talked to him as clear as he would have during the day. If any of his wheezing conversations could be considered 'clear.'

“I would not choose to have an outsider knowing Billy's secret. But I suppose you have saved us both during this crisis,” Wernicke conceded after Miles had finished up with his chores. Miles was yawning and feeling exhausted, but he stayed in the room for a moment longer, stretching his tired limbs.

“This may come as a surprise, but I actually want to help you guys,” Miles said, sleepily.

“You have helped me,” Wernicke breathed.

“No, I mean, I want to help you both, with Murkoff,” Miles clarified.

“There is no helping with Murkoff. The Walrider Project, even if they bring it back, it requires expensive machinery they could not hope to create quickly. It requires research that was destroyed. The Project is dead,” the old man said, face slack and lifeless per usual.

“I would say that Project Walrider is as dead as Rudolf Wernicke,” Miles quipped. The sudden uptick of beeping on the monitors indicated Billy had not told his adopted grandfather about that particular leaked secret. “Yeah, I know about you. I don't fully understand how you're alive, though.”

“Billy,” Wernicke wheezed. “He...he won't let me die.”

Miles stared in strange horror at the living corpse, stationary in its bed, hooked up to a collection of machines. “You...you mean you don't want to be alive?”

“Billy is an adult. He would be better off without me. I was the loose string. Murkoff cannot torture any secrets out of him. He would never allow himself to be taken. No, my job of raising him and protecting him from dissection is over. But Billy, he refuses to let me pass,” Wernicke sighed the last part, drawing out the word in a dry hiss.

“How does he keep you alive?” Miles asked.

“The swarm. He can direct the machines, and they repair my cells. It is painful. Living...hurts. I'm over a hundred and twenty years old. Sitting in this room, in that chair, shackled to this Hell on Earth...I wish Billy would let me die,” Wernicke said. His tone was the same monotone as always, but Miles felt he heard it in a sorrowful new way.

“Help me...and I will help you,” Miles said. The only sound for several moments was the buzzing and beeping of machinery clicking away.

“How can I help you,” wheezed Wernicke. “I do not have any influence at Murkoff anymore.

“How can I stop Project Walrider, once and for all? I don't want to wait for them to find another host, or to experiment unsuccessfully on a thousand patients before admitting defeat. I want them called out for their crimes against humanity. I want them exposed, and I want Murkoff to go down.”

“How could an incapacitated old man help with such a feat?” Wernicke asked.

“I'm not sure,” Miles sighed, pushing his hair away from his face, feeling the puckered skin around his puffy scar. “Maybe start by telling me something about Project Walrider? Like, how did Billy become the host?”

The beeping filled the silence of Wernicke's pause before he spoke again. “Failure after failure; lost cause after lost cause. The Morphogenic Engine claimed more and more lives. The scientists grew frustrated. By all of our calculations and hypotheses, a person needed so much exposure and so much predisposition to direct the nanites. No one succeeded, and we were running out of volunteers.”

Miles found himself leaning forward, hanging on every word, feeling wide awake though he ached in strange ways.

“The poor child,” Wernicke continued, “he was disturbed, and brought to Murkoff for treatment. His mother was concerned, of course, about the so called therapy. Watching her son hooked up to machines and forced to watch strange images...but he was an unprecedented case—to have a child so disturbed. I noticed early on that he was showing potential.” The chirp and buzz of the life-support chair's machines filled the pauses in conversation. Miles could almost hear a type of musical rhythm to the sounds.

“His mother argued against the treatment. One particularly ambitious doctor, a Richard Trager, suggested that removing the mother would serve two purposes: to put an end to her constant complaints, as well as pushing the promising subject to potentially become disturbed enough to activate the Morphogenic Engine. I argued against the plan. I was overruled by my superiors at Murkoff...”

“What the hell kind of doctors and scientists are hiring hit-men and plotting murder?” Miles asked, disgust plain in his tone.

“Billy came to me,” Wernicke said, ignoring Miles question. “I was allowed to question him frequently as part of the therapy. He told me that he had seen Trager's dreams, 'blood dreams' he called them. He knew that his mother was in danger. When the notice came that his mother had suffered from a heart attack—he saw through their deceptions. His time spent with the Morphogenic Engine therapy had awoken something no previous patient experienced.”

“Psychic abilities. He mentioned them to me. Though he said nothing about reading my dreams...”

“I'm not sure he can control it completely,” Wernicke said. “He could interact with the Walrider the way no one else could before. They hooked him into the machine while I was kept away. They knew I would not stand for the child suffering the pain of being inserted into the machine. It's...not pleasant. I only later saw the readings from that session. There was no bronchial accumulation as seen in all other subjects. The Morphogenic Activity was...well, he broke all of our previous records. I recognized the readings for what they were, Billy’s lateral ascension...but it was already too late to avoid the tragedy.”

“In the confusing aftermath that followed Billy's lateral ascension, I suspected that the child had become the host. I destroyed all proof of his success. When the cost projections went out, I increased every single line item until it was too much to be considered profitable by any measure. A few human lives are nothing to a corporation like Murkoff, but you touch their bottom line and finally you have their attention. The project was cut.”

“I used my connections to fake my death and move safely with Billy. I was already old and losing mobility, and most assumed Billy had not survived the ascension. According to Murkoff, he was just another unethical experiment to be erased from the files. No one would want to know about a child being forced into such situations. And no one would believe that he had succeeded in becoming the host. I would have moved further, but my health was already going. Now I live here with Billy. I bought him this land, this house, and the cattle. I wanted him to have a life. But with the swarm inside, I don't know what kind of a life he can ever have.”

“I don't know,” Miles said, feeling as though he had been holding his breath through the entire story. “I think he's earned whatever kind of life he wants for himself. Some mad scientists decided to put a nanite monster inside of him--that doesn’t make him a criminal.”

“You call the Walrider a monster,” Wernicke said, and Miles thought he could almost detect a hint of humor in the man's usually lifeless tone. “Truly, it is named after a German nightmare creature. But within the scientific community, we had to reminded several of my colleagues that the swarm was actually a scientific discovery and not, well, a divine being.”

“People thought the Walrider was a god?” Miles asked, eyes narrowing.

“Those connected to the engine had dreams, visions. They heard voices. And the end desire was to create a sentient being able to give life and destroy it. What would you call a being like this?”

Miles did not know how to answer, and the silence in the dim room became stifling.

“If Murkoff has re-opened the project, and acquired an asylum,” Wernicke finally wheezed, “you would need to get footage inside. I can guarantee their methods will not be humane. Forgotten mental patients would make the perfect guinea pigs, and there would be little backlash against using extreme methods. Murkoff knows what a money sink the research can become if drastic measures are not taken. I fear the current test subjects will not be given the same considerations Billy received, and calling them considerations is a stretch.”

“My ex-boyfriend is in there,” Miles said, turning his head to stare at the wall. Ex-boyfriend. Miles had to abandon Chris to his fate in the asylum, because that was somehow better than joining him there or leaping off the roof of an apartment building. “I have an inside source. An orderly. He can probably get me inside.”

“That's your best chance,” Wernicke wheezed. Miles yawned, feeling utterly exhausted.

“I'm going to get some rest. Thanks for the advice. I will see you in the morning,” Miles said, walking across the house to Billy's room.

Miles gazed up at the ceiling from his twin bed. Billy was across the way, clean, tucked in, and sleeping soundly. No wonder Billy had not wanted to talk about becoming the host. Miles could not imagine performing such terrible experiments on someone so young. The scars he had seen on Billy in the shower must have come from this Morphgenic Engine or some other part of Murkoff’s “therapy.” 

If Miles was able to find concrete proof that Murkoff was breaking laws, he would be able to publish an article and bring them down for good. Would he be able to do that without exposing Billy Hope? In the past, all of his stories had been about gaining awareness and assistance for the hurt and forgotten, but was it worth it to sacrifice the privacy and comfort of one person to save potentially hundreds? Even if that person was Billy? 

Miles put his phone on the nightstand, surprised that there were still no missed calls. Maybe Waylon was actually respecting his request and giving him space. Or possibly his friend was pissed off and giving him the silent treatment. Miles deserved Waylon’s anger and disgust. He shut off his phone for the evening. Thinking of Waylon seemed to remind him of exactly how sexually frustrated he was feeling after the earlier shower.

Billy snored loudly, drawing Miles’ attention. He smiled at the sight, until a strange vision scared the smile off his face. The shadows in the dark bedroom seemed to be shifting. They seemed to be reaching. Wait, were they really…

Smooth ropes began caressing Miles' face. He was not even sure what to call the strange appendages. At times, they moved like tentacles or slithered and coiled like snakes. Other times they felt just like fingers attached to smooth hands. The night in the motel room, Miles had been tipsy and not worried about any physical harm from the manifestations, but Billy had been awake and directing the swarm. At least, Billy had admitted to it being about half him and half the Walrider. Miles glanced nervously at the other twin bed in the room and saw Billy sprawled out over the too-small bed with no covers and snoring loudly. Definitely asleep. So who was controlling the swarm?

One tentacle started at Miles leg and snaked its way up the loose plaid pants Miles had borrowed from Billy for the evening. His blood pressure began to rise. Perhaps he should run? Wake up Billy? But the boy had been so sick and tired. Miles pushed himself up on his elbows and stared down, watching the snake-like shape writhing under the plaid fabric, inching its way closer until...

Miles dropped back on the bed and bit his lip to keep from moaning. It has been so long since he had felt any touch that was not his own. The strange appendage was pleasantly warm and it felt neither slick nor rough. It felt good when it wrapped around Miles' waking cock and squeezed, dragging up and down slowly. Miles was rock hard after just one stroke.

Frightened gray eyes glanced over at the still sleeping Billy. Was he somehow directing the swarm in his sleep? Or was this some kind of independent desire of the Walrider? Or perhaps Billy's limited psychic abilities had sensed how horny and frustrated Miles was after his terrible crime against his friend in Denver and the earlier activities with Billy.

The air seemed to be growing hazy, the dark particles coalescing into a creature that was almost human. At the sight, Miles gave an undignified yelp and jumped back. He hit his head against the wall and the strange smoky being tilted its alien skull as it stared at Miles with a black face devoid of individual facial features. Was the Walrider looking at him?

“Billy?” Miles whispered to the strange creature. There was no answer, except for a dull humming sound that started in Miles’ brain. A strange appendage coiled around Miles' shaft again and resumed its attentions. They were alternating between firm tugs and teasing tendrils stroking along Miles' thighs, balls, and then pressing further down until...

Miles back arched on the tiny bed as he felt his ass prodded by the foreign object. A thing—a tendril—was wiggling against his hole and Miles clenched his muscles against the invader. “I...we...you...” Miles had never felt more confused in his life. But a little bit of confusion could not stop his curiosity. The next time the tendril wormed against his opening Miles relaxed and brought his hand up over his mouth to keep from making a noise of surprise. It slid in easily due to its smooth texture and small girth and Miles' hips jerked up, thrusting into the cords manipulating his cock.

It definitely was not natural. This was the kind of twisted, disgusting relationship Miles deserved. Some dark hell creature hovering in the room, forcing Miles to pant and squirm as he was violated. 

“Billy,” Miles breathed, closing his eyes and dropping his thighs wide—submitting to the ministrations of the strange creature. The intrusion in his ass grew larger in girth but it was slow enough to not burn or stretch too much at one time. It had been over a year since Miles had been penetrated—since he had lost Chris. It felt nice to submit and let go, accepting whatever the strange creature had in mind. Did it even _have_ a mind of its own?

The wriggling sensation inside of him was maddening, especially when the appendage expertly sought out the spot that had Miles gasping and bucking his hips against the intrusion. “Fuck yeah,” he groaned softly. He could feel himself leaking out over the tentacles making their work feel even better than before. The feelers seemed to be inside of his brain, knowing exactly how he liked to be touched and honing in on all of his most sensitive spots. Two small tendrils had even fluttered underneath his night shirt to tease his nipples.

Miles opened his eyes after so long and jumped when he saw that the strange alien face hovering inches from his own. “Shit,” he exclaimed, so loudly it caused Billy in the other bed to snort loudly and shift in his sleep. The curious face tilted again as though trying to understand Miles. “Billy?” There was no change when Miles asked by that name. “Walrider?” Still no response. His hand was shaking but he forced it to lift up and gently touched the surface of the manifestation. He wasn't sure if he should expect it to feel like something, or to diffuse like putting your hand through a cloud of smoke. There was a feeling to the creature, and it even seemed to lean into Miles touch, the buzzing in his head suddenly raising much louder until it felt like his entire body was vibrating.

Miles moved his hand to grab onto what could pass for a shoulder of the strange being and found it sturdy, and the apparition did not flinch, even when Miles' grip tightened tremendously. Feather light fingers of smoke were swirling around his dripping slit but Miles was unprepared when a tiny rope slid inside the wet opening causing him to yelp helplessly. The sudden change to fear seemed to confuse the specter, and the offending tendril was immediately removed. Miles was gasping and shuddering. It hadn't exactly felt _bad_ but that was _definitely_ not something he had ever considered before. He looked up at the wraith with a new curiosity. Was this some kind of strange experiment to this creature?

“Do you get something out of this? Does it feel good?” Miles asked his voice tremulous and struggling to stay quiet. He was not sure if the swarm even understood language, but he wanted to try. He got the distinct impression that this creature was **not** Billy Hope, but something else. The answer was a surge in the buzzing sound like the whoosh of static over the airways. The strange figure leaned forward and a long, extended tongue-like extension left what could be considered its mouth and forced its way into Miles' open mouth and to the back of his throat without pausing.

It was too late to argue before the pressure moving and teasing his insides in tandem with the slick movements up and down his cock brought Miles to the edge. The act of choking on the appendage only heightened his senses. His hips bucked up and his back arched as his climax hit and white light exploded behind his eyelids. There was so much come, and the creature milked every last drop. Before Miles could form any kind of coherent thought about this new sin, the creature had vanished back into the hazy darkness.

Miles attempted to clean up the mess without dirtying anything of Billy’s. He glanced one more time at the other bed and saw no discernible change in his roommate’s posture. Before he could over think the situation, Miles passed out from satisfaction and exhaustion.


	9. Unknown Extension

Miles woke with a start. Bright sunlight filtered in through crooked blinds. Miles felt strange. Very strange. At first, he thought it was because of his nocturnal emissions and the vapor monster, but then it dawned on him that it was actually something else entirely.

Miles wandered out of the room shirtless with borrowed plaid pants clinging to his hipbones. He followed his nose toward the origin of delicious breakfast smells. Miles sauntered into the kitchen and found Billy busy over the stove. His glasses were steaming up from the heat and his hair fell clean and combed around his smiling face.

“Morning,” Miles said, feeling almost shy about what exactly Billy's reaction would be to the previous evening. Was he aware of the strange experience with the Walrider? Did he regret allowing Miles to pleasure him in the shower? Miles rolled his eyes at himself. Acting like a goddamn school boy.

“Morning Mister....uh, Miles,” Billy corrected himself, blushing. He put down his wooden spoon and walked away from the stove for a brief moment to kiss a surprised Miles on the lips. “How do you like your eggs?”

“Huh. You seem...healthy? Better?” Miles asked, staring in disbelief as the boy who had been vomiting sludge and burning with fever the day before was now bouncing around cooking eggs and bacon with a smile on his glowing face.

“Thanks to you,” Billy said, smiling shyly. “Grandfather's already tended for the morning. I wanted to let you sleep in. I know you had a long night.”

Miles froze in the act of sitting down at the small kitchen table. His heart was pounding as he looked at Billy. “You uh, you know about that? I wasn't sure how much you were...involved...”

“I know, taking care of Grandfather is very involved. But he told me you took care of everything, even the midnight troubles with his oxygen. I haven't slept through the night since...well, I can't very well remember,” said Billy, his focus down at the stove where he was scrambling eggs.

“Oh, that's what you meant...” Miles frowned at the kitchen. “Do you have any coffee?”

“Sorry Mister Upshur,” Billy said, relapsing into the formal address. “I don't like the stuff and Grandfather can't drink it so we don't have any. I have milk?”

“Well. Milk is fine I guess,” Miles said settling into on of the two chairs around the small table. Before long he had a tall glass of cold milk and a plate of eggs and bacon in front of him. Miles was not even sure how to react. Chris was not the type to pamper his partner, and Waylon had never truly been his partner. All other partners had been one-night-stands or drunken mistakes. “Thank you, Billy. This is...really nice.”

“You look good this morning,” Billy said, settling in with his own plate and digging into the steaming eggs. “Maybe I just don't get to see you in the morning. Usually you look...well, more tired.”

“I am tired. And cranky,” muttered Miles, picking up a piece of crispy bacon in his hand and chomping away. “I feel good today though,” Miles admitted as he chewed. “It's been a while since I woke up without a hangover.” Miles chewed in silence for several heart beats, chasing down the bacon with cold milk. “And no one's made me breakfast...ever.” Maybe Chris had brought home something fast, and Waylon always made him coffee, but a continental breakfast was something else.

“You took care of me. It's the least I can do for you,” Billy said, smiling with a mouth full of eggs.

“Do you remember anything from last night, after you fell asleep?” Miles asked casually, taking a large bite of breakfast. “Like, any dreams?”

“Oh God,” groaned Billy, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Did I talk in my sleep or something embarrassing? Sorry. I've never really had any overnight guests. I don't know what I'm like when I sleep. I hope I didn't disturb you...”

Miles chewed in silence, considering the boy's face. Dark blue eyes behind thick black frames were open and guileless. No one was that good of an actor. Billy was not in control of what happened to Miles the night before. So who—or what—had jacked him off?

“N-no. You didn't. You just...you tossed and turned a lot,” said Miles. He had a haunted look in his gray eyes as he ate the rest of his breakfast in silence. The pair finished their food and attacked the dishes together--Billy washing in the sink and Miles drying.

“Thanks for coming back,” Billy said as they worked, his forearms submerged in soapy water. “I might still be fighting through the attack if you hadn't.”

Miles glanced at Billy out of the corner of his eye, but continued to dry the skillet in his hands. “I'm not really sure what I did. If my hand jobs could cure illness, I would never get sick, so that couldn't be it...”

Billy laughed at that, dropping a fork back into the sink as his shoulder shook. “That part was nice but...no I just meant, you being here. Something about the swarm and your presence. It likes you. A lot. It makes it a little difficult for me to know where the desire it feels and I feel ends and begins.”

“You think the Walrider would get jealous if we moved our relationship forward?” Miles asked, and Billy laughed as though he were making some strange joke but Miles remained deadly serious.

“What? I don't think it works that way...”

“But the other night, you got drunk, and you were using your abilities to seduce me,” Miles pointed out.

Billy coughed to cover his own embarrassment. “Uh, sorry, I had been drinking. I've never done...well anything before, so not that either, but the swarm and the buzzing it was just, insistent. It wanted to touch you...I did too.”

“You said if we went forward it might try to make some kinda claim on me, keep me as a mate or something,” Miles said, placing the dried pan down on the counter. “I just didn't know how much of a ...separate relationship...I would have with the swarm.”

Billy drained the sink, passing over the last couple forks for Miles to dry. “I guess I really don't know,” Billy admitted.

“Would your grandfather know?”

“No one would I don't think. I'm the first of my kind, it's the first of its kind, right?” Billy pointed out. Miles hummed at the sense of it, but he still felt disquieted. Did what happened last night already count as moving the relationship forward? Was Miles already claimed by the Walrider? Would the Walrider get mad if he made some kind of move on Billy?

Why was his life so fucking strange and complicated? Miles felt miserable.

“Why did you come back?” Billy asked as they worked in companionable silence.

Because this story is the only thing I have left in my life, Miles thought. He dried in silence for several moments until he realized he had been drying the last fork for much too long. He set it down and saw Billy watching him with an anxious expression. “I told you I would,” Miles said finally.

“I have a surprise for you,” Billy said, a childish smile lighting up his face as he grabbed Miles' hand and led him into the living room. Miles was apprehensive, even after Billy gestured toward two moldy boxes. “Tada”

“Black mold, just what I always wanted...” Miles said.

“They're all that's left from Grandfather's files,” Billy explained, smiling. “They were in the crawl space. I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news but, most of the notes are in German. I hope you can at least find something of use in there for your investigation.”

“So you actually do want to help me with my investigation? You're not afraid I am going to blow your cover?”

“Would you do that?” Billy asked, his smile falling from his face.

“No,” Miles said immediately. He knelt down and lifted the lid from one of the boxes. It was filled entirely with manila folders and papers. The other box was the same story. Miles hummed to himself. “I really need to get some work done for my day job. You guys don't have internet out here. I probably need to get back to my motel.”

“I understand,” Billy said, though his face looked like someone had just kicked his puppy.

“I'll come back. Just like last time,” Miles gave a reassuring smile. “I might just quickly look over this stuff if you don't mind. Is it alright if I record some of these? I have my camcorder and laptop in the Jeep.”

“Whatever you need, Mister...Miles,” Billy said, correcting himself. “I really need to get out to feed the cows. It will probably take a few hours. Will you be gone by then?”

“Yeah, probably,” Miles said, standing up and walking toward the door as Billy followed. “I'm not sure how much work I will have since I can't seem to receive emails out here. My phone acts funny...”

“Yeah, cellphones do not like me,” Billy said, shaking his head.

“Then how have I been calling you?”

“We have a regular phone line,” Billy explained.

“You have a land-line? You guys are decades behind out here, huh?”

“Nah,” Billy said, stopping as the pair reached Miles' jeep. “I'm decades ahead.” Miles chuckled to himself but was cut off when Billy slid a hand behind his neck and pulled him in for a kiss. Billy had obviously been paying close attention because the movement of his lips and tongue were much more controlled and intriguing. Miles returned the kiss, cupping Billy's cheek and getting momentarily lost in Billy's taste and warmth.

“Billy,” Miles whispered when the kiss finally broke. “I meant what I said. Casual.”

“I know,” Billy said, not sounding the least bit offended. “I just really wanted to kiss you, casually.”

Miles grinned as Billy walked toward his pickup. Miles opened his Jeep and retrieved his electronics and returned to the house to work on his investigation.

Billy had been right. Most of the handwritten notes were in German, but the majority of the computer print-outs from Murkoff were in English. There were files crammed full of cost analysis reports. All of the line items were coded so it was impossible to tell what they were without some kind of key. They could be ordering two hundred pounds of uranium and Miles would have no idea. The notes in German were irritating because not only were they in a different language, the handwriting was illegible in any language. Miles doubted he could even make out the words enough to run it through a translator. The faded, poor condition of the papers also did not help the situation.

One of the files contained black and white photographs that had faded and warped at the edges, but were otherwise intact. Miles photographed them all with his camcorder, though he had trouble making sense of them. It looked like giant machinery being put together with a mountain of tubes and wires. The entire area seemed to be the size of a football field. Another one of strange spheres filled with tubes and wires. The harmless nature of the first photographs left Miles shocked when he came to the last dozen.

The photographs showed bodies with numbers instead of names and the word autopsy handwritten in ink at the top of each one. The people in the photographs seemed inhuman. Some had wounds that looked like their entire face had suddenly bloomed with giant tumors. Another cadaver had an arm that ended in a large, deformed club rather than a hand. A few of the bodies were vivisected on the table with tiny flags pinned at certain areas to highlight certain internal irregularities. Miles had never taken an anatomy class, but he was pretty sure people were not supposed to have protruding organs overrun with growths.

Miles threw the photographs down with a disgusted grunt and stopped his recording. Wernicke was a scientist, what had he expected? They were experimenting on humans under dangerous, unethical conditions. Hadn't he said that Billy never developed tumors or bronchial issues? These must be the aftermath of the unlucky souls that did.

One of the last random files that he sampled contained a jewel case with a CD inside. Miles grinned at the antiquated technology. Waylon had made fun of him when he had purchased a refurbished computer for cheap because it was so outdated it still had a CD/DVD player. He temporarily considered calling his friend and bragging about how his old computer had saved the day—until he remembered that he and Waylon weren't talking. Miles sighed as he opened his laptop up and stuck the strange CD into his computer.

One file. Hmm, that was odd--and it was some type of unknown extension. Shit. Waylon would know how to access it. Miles wished he could search the internet. He attempted to open it using every audio program he had on his laptop with no results. As a last ditch effort, he attempted to open it in a video program.

“Yesssss,” Miles hissed as he watched the file open on his laptop. It was short, just under five minutes. Miles put his player on repeat and made it full screen before leaning back and pressing play.

Black and white images immediately began dancing in front of his eyes. Peculiar. Like some kind of Rorschach test flashing and changing. Sometimes Miles would catch a glimpse of something else. He found himself squinting in an attempt to see behind the images at something that seemed just out of his view, dancing in his peripheral vision. Then he saw it, clear as day. Hidden behind the strange, flashing images was a clear view of a flipped car in a ditch. The picture made Miles' stomach turn. It was the same make and model as his parents' car when they had the accident. But, that seemed an impossible coincidence.

Another sequence seemed to take on the shape of an unusual face. As he watched, the face seemed to be smiling at him. Miles squinted at the face for a long time until he realized why it looked familiar. Chris was different with his head shaved, his forehead a mess of gore, and bloody slits where his nose used to be. Miles realized that he was not actually smiling. Chris had no lips leaving his teeth bared and was simply staring without emotion.

A buzzing was growing inside of Miles mind—the same sound he often heard when Billy was around. The images were twisting and changing and each time Miles felt like he was getting a glimpse of something he desperately wanted to forget. His parents’ crash. Starving children. Bodies piled up for burning. Chris' break down. Waylon bleeding and bruised. Miles did not want to see those things, but he felt helpless to turn away until he could have sworn he heard something through the buzzing...it almost sounded like his name...

“Mister Upshur!” Billy said, shaking Miles violently by the shoulders.

“Billy,” Miles stuttered, the dancing images still playing with his eyes and causing Billy to look distorted as though his flesh were crawling. Miles mashed the escape button and slammed his laptop shut. He squeezed his eyes shut to stop the terrible spinning feeling. “I thought you were going to take care of the cows.”

“I did,” Billy said.

Miles managed to pry one eye open and he saw that Billy was still wearing the jeans and flannel shirt from that morning, but they were soiled with mud and probably other cow products. His face showed signs of dirt and sweat. “That was quick?”

“I was gone for almost four hours. I thought you had to go and do work?”

“I...do,” Miles said, feeling confused and disoriented. Four hours? He had only watched the clip for a few minutes at the most. He glanced at his laptop and saw that the low battery light was flashing. It had been full before, or close to it. Miles felt dizzy and when he shut his eyes he saw the moving images again. “I need a drink.”

“What do you want to drink?” Billy asked, his tone concerned.

“No, a real drink. I have to...I need to leave. I'll see you in the morning,” Miles said, grabbing his camera in one hand, laptop in the other, and shambling toward the door.

“Miles! What's wrong with you? You don't seem like yourself,” Billy said, following Miles out the door. “Was it something I said?”

“No, it's not you at all, it's...I'm feeling weird. I'll be here in the morning. I'll bring breakfast,” Miles said, loading up his Jeep and hurriedly starting the engine. He gave a weak wave to Billy as he pushed the Jeep into reverse.

The motel room was the same as he remembered. He had checked in with the lackey at the front desk, and stopped by the liquor store, before shutting himself up in his room for the night. With an open bottle of bourbon on the cheap desk beside his laptop, Miles prepared to open the last couple days' emails.

To his surprise, Miles felt his phone vibrate in his pocket as he settled into the terrible motel chair. It was Waylon. Miles had wondered when he would try to call. Except then Miles realized that he actually had over two dozen missed calls, and almost as many voice-mails. Apparently, there was no reception when around Billy. Miles thought it was best he had not been tempted by those calls the previous day. After the unsettling night and morning, Miles easily pushed aside the heavy task of speaking with Waylon.

The writing was boring work, made sloppy by drink. Miles had to return calls and emails. There was a potential new client inquiring about rates and requesting a meeting. Would he be back in Denver by next week? Miles honestly did not know. Drinking while working was a double edged sword. On one hand, Miles felt relaxed and motivated to continue to set up posts for all of his clients. On the other hand, the work was probably less than perfect. He made a note to check for spelling mistakes and typos in the morning. Miles' head was swimming.

He stared at his computer, seeing the disturbing video on his recently viewed files list. Miles felt strange thinking about the vivid and haunting images he had seen while hypnotized by the video. He quickly deleted it from the list, only to see it replaced with another familiar video. Miles groaned and pushed away from his computer. He flopped down on the bed unceremoniously.

Miles would not claim his physical or mental health were better because of the alcohol, but he could say that he felt more like himself. Whatever depressing thing that said about him was a worry for another day. He put the bottle up to his lips and drank, barely recoiling from the sting. He loved it. The burn was guaranteed to take the pain away.

Miles was pleasantly numb and clutching a half empty bottle when his phone began to vibrate on the bedspread next to him. “Upshur,” Miles said, answering the phone on drunken impulse.

“Miles,” said his favorite voice in the world. “Thank God, Miles.” Waylon's voice broke and Miles knew his friend would be tearing up. Fuck. Miles had not wanted to answer his phone; he definitely had not wanted to hear Waylon sob over their fight. How was that going to help? Miles considered ending the call. “Are you okay, Miles?” Waylon asked finally in a tremulous voice.

“I'm fine, Park,” mumbled Miles, sitting up and setting down the bottle. He held his forehead in his hand as he listened.

“I heard a clank. You're drinking. You're safe right, Miles?” Waylon asked.

“Yes,” Miles answered, louder than necessary. “Yes, Park, I am safe. I'm back in Leadville. Making progress with my source.”

“Why are you drinking?” Waylon asked, still concerned.

“I have had a really rough time since I returned. My source was...ill, and I stumbled upon some strange Murkoff relic that left me feeling strange. And worst of all, I have convinced myself that I need to avoid your calls, and keep some distance for a while,” Miles answered, the bitter truth coming out thanks to the bourbon.

“You sound upset. You shouldn't be drinking when you're upset,” Waylon said.

“I am upset. You know what else upsets me? It _upsets_ me that Eddie Gluskin leaves bruises on my best friend. It _upsets_ me that you stay and refuse to address the situation. And most of all, it _upsets_ me that I let you slip out of my fingers and into such a horrible situation.”

“Shove it, Miles,” said Waylon. Miles could hear the sniffles Waylon tried to muffle, and the thickness in his voice. “That's what I can't figure out most of all with you. You...you went through so much trouble to...to push me away. You put up every obstacle you could between us. And then you tried to reverse your stance only after I got someone new.”

“Because I'm a dumbass,” Miles growled into the phone, picking the bottle back up and taking a loud swig. “I was blind and stupid and holding onto an impossible relationship.”

“You _still_ are,” scoffed Waylon, laughing bitterly through tears on the other end of the line. “You are still after Murkoff, no matter how many times I told you to drop it, for your own sanity.” Waylon sniffled during the pause.“You're out of town right now on a lead to hurt the company you feel hurt Chris. You say it's over. You witnessed everything. But you still haven't let him go—not really. He was always looming over our relationship, and you can't let go even when it's been over for an entire year. He's...he's in a place where he can get help.”

“How do you know? How do any of us know?” Miles snapped, laying back down on the bed. “They won't let me in. Chris was getting worse and worse there. God, you're judging me for holding onto him, but you tell me:  when is a relationship fucking over when one of you just...drifts away. He's not dead--he’s sitting in a goddamn asylum. He needs me more than ever. And I'm...I just...I had to leave him,” Miles finished, holding the phone away from his face as he exhaled long and loud.

“It's a shit situation,” Waylon said when Miles brought the phone back up. “But it's not worth giving up on the rest of your life. Chris wouldn't want that for you. He wouldn't want you to be this miserable. Maybe if you could have moved on, maybe then we could have had a chance, but...”

“Look, just because I want him to be safe--just  because I cannot stop trying to protect him...it doesn't mean that I don't _love you_ ,” Miles stopped, realizing his drunken slip. The words he had not said since that night. Well, he had gone that far and there was no reason not to push further.

“I'm sorry I denied it and caused you pain. I hid behind my defunct relationship because I was afraid of losing the only person left in my life. I'm a walking curse,” Miles sighed. There was nothing but continued breathing and silence on the other end of the line. “I wish there was a way to take back all the ways I hurt you, but I can't. Right now...you need to give me space. I'm not...I'm not a danger to myself right now.”

“You're alone and drinking and somewhere I can't save you. I worry,” Waylon said.

“I'm...I'm not like _alone_ alone. I had some work to do,” slurred Miles. “I did not _have_ to sleep alone.”

“Do you say that because you think I will be jealous?” Waylon asked, his words coming fast. “Is it that hard to believe that maybe I would just be happy for you? That seeing you in a relationship that made you happy, would make me happy for you. Just because you're hung up, doesn't mean I am. I'm glad you have someone to nut on, Miles.”

Miles laughed drunkenly into the phone. “Ha, I knew it. You are jealous.”

“We need to talk about what happened, in Denver, that night...but I can't right now. Eddie's coming home any second now,” Waylon said, sighing.

It was Miles' turn to feel jealous. “How's the brute? Bashed anyone's face in lately?”

“Miles, promise me you will call me. Soon. I'll stop calling you, I will, but...call me soon.”

“I will.”

“Take care of yourself,” Waylon said softly.

_Beep_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still on schedule with the twice a week updates, plugging along, I think there might be around 20 chapters so we're at the half way point. Yay!


	10. Puddles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut warning

True to his word, Miles showed up at Billy's the next day with Styrofoam containers of pancakes. Miles felt out of place. He did not know what it was like to actually court someone. He had never been the type. Was it strange to want to bring breakfast foods to someone? At least pancakes usually helped him feel better after a night of heavy drinking.

Billy leaned in close to Miles as soon as the door opened, but when Miles simply looked surprised, Billy opened the door wider and welcomed Miles into the house.

“Did you sleep okay?” Billy asked, pushing his glasses up on his nose as though to get a clearer look at Miles.

“Yeah, sure,” Miles grumbled, making his way to the kitchen. It was bad enough that he was hungover, but he also had not slept well. Every time he closed his eyes he could see black and white grainy images morphing and dancing behind his lids. Nightmares had been the least of his worries.

“How's Rudy?” Miles asked as the devoured the pancakes straight out of the container.

“Rudy?”

“Yeah, Rudolf back there,” Miles said, chewing away at a mouthful of pancakes with syrup smeared on his chin.

“You can't call him Rudy,” Billy objected, pausing in the act of putting another slice of pancake into his mouth.

“I can and I just did,” Miles grinned. “How about you? Good night? Not having any relapses?”

“No, I slept...as good as usual,” Billy said.

“Good. That's good,” Miles said. “Do you need any help with the cows today?”

“I didn't get the feeling you enjoyed the cows,” said Billy, his eyebrows raising above his glasses frames.

“I...enjoy spending time with you?” Miles said.

“Just let me move Grandfather, then I'll meet you at the truck,” Billy said, a grin splitting his face.

It was a sunny day. Miles realized it had been a long, gray spring up until that point. He had missed the sun. The breeze made it too chilly to walk around without a coat, but it was at least warm in the sunshine. Miles wore his usual leather jacket over a heavy wool sweater and jeans, and Billy wore a lighter jacket over a plaid button down shirt and dark jeans. His wide-brimmed hat sat on his head, making Miles chuckle. Miles rolled his window down and rode in the pickup truck with his elbow hanging out. It smelled like cows, but Miles just felt happy to have the fresh air.

Billy did not need much help moving the huge sacks of feed. Miles struggled to drag one over to the bin, while Billy effortlessly carried two at once, perched on his shoulders. When Billy got further away, it seemed almost like a swarm of insects was gathering around him in the distance. Miles stared, confused, until he had to double over and rest his hands on his knees to stop the sudden buzzing and feeling of dizziness. Miles regained his breath and cursed his luck. Hopefully the side-effects of that horrible video would wear off sooner than later.

Billy came back after a while and there was no trace of the earlier buzzing swarm. Miles carefully checked Billy's eyes behind his frames to ensure they were blue and not something else. Billy just grinned in confusion at Miles strange behavior. He took a small step forward and reached out to take Miles' hand. Miles stared down at where Billy's callused hand was holding his and frowned.

“I've been thinking a lot about...the other day, in the shower. I want to repay the favor,” Billy said, blue eyes averted, unable to meet Miles'.

Miles shook his head and grinned. “You don't have to do that. I didn't want you to owe me some kind of favor. I just...did not really know how to help I guess. And you naked, that was a bad idea. I have enough trouble restraining myself when your clothes are on.”

“Why are you restraining yourself at all?” Billy asked, biting his lip as he looked at Miles. He released Miles’ hand and leaned casually against a graying bale of hay, putting one foot up on the bale while hooking his thumbs in his belt-loops.

“I...I don't know,” Miles offered, lamely. He could not tell Billy the truth. Miles feared getting close to the boy in case he ended up selling the story and betraying Billy. The kid had been through enough torture in his life. That kind of betrayal by your first real crush could be devastating. He also did not want to admit that he had molested his best friend days before and was worried about his disgrace contaminating virginal Billy. And then there was the question that had haunted Miles his entire life...was he really feeling something, or just lonely? He usually never knew until it was too late.

It was really difficult with Billy sitting there so casually, equal parts innocence and sin, projecting a sexy picture of rugged cowboy and shy virgin all at once. Miles had never been anyone's first. He did not even know the name of his first. He preferred it that way.

“We can do whatever you want to do,” Billy offered again, blue eyes pleading behind their thick frames.

“You don't have to,” Miles said.

“I want to put it in my mouth,” Billy said, and the awkward wording was like finding a direct line to Miles' core. He had heard those words so many times—climaxed at the sound of them—that just hearing them spoken had a Pavlovian effect on Miles’ groin. His blood pumped faster as he looked over Billy, still biting his lip unconsciously. Yeah. Miles could see it clearly. He could get Billy on his knees and fuck his mouth. But the boy had no experience. It would not be anything like the time Waylon had swallowed him whole while moaning at the taste.

“Have you ever sucked a dick before?” Miles asked, bluntly, though he suspected the answer.

Billy shook his head, the blush returning to his cheeks. Billy's relaxed posture became more rigid and unsure.

Miles closed the distance between them and pushed Billy's shoulder back against the large hay bale. Billy spluttered as Miles' hands found his ridiculous belt buckle and began undoing his jeans.

“Mister...Miles I didn't, uh, not here,” Billy stuttered as Miles successfully pulled his belt away from the loops and tossed it on the grass.

“Why? Who's going to see us? The cows?” Miles snorted at his joke. “No, I think you've waited long enough.”

“But, I wanted to...I mean I was going to...you,” Billy stuttered, adorably befuddled, as Miles undid his jeans and rucked them, along with his boxers, to the middle of his thighs. The young man met Miles' eyes and the reporter exhaled through his nose at the frightened expression there.

“Maybe I could give you a demonstration first?” Miles offered, his hand reaching out where Billy's freed erection was jutting out into the cool air. “May I?” Billy licked his lips and nodded his head quickly. It was all the invitation Miles needed to stroke his hand across Billy's swollen flesh.

Miles preferred the view from his position. It was more satisfying than when they were in the shower. He liked to watch his partner's reaction when he was on the giving end of things. Billy inhaled sharply at the first contact, his mouth falling open and eyes fluttering closed. How did Billy even know how to make such an erotic face? Something that sensual could not just be on accident. Miles watched Billy's face closely as he loosely pumped his fist along the young man's length. His actions drew out breathy moans and gasps from Billy's open mouth, making Miles throb with need.

The older man sank down to his knees in the field, the dried grass and hay making it less cold and hard than it could have been though there was still some dampness seeping through his jeans. Billy stared, his glasses falling to the end of his nose as he panted. Miles smirked up at the boy as he used his hand to direct Billy's erection toward his mouth. Miles flicked his tongue out across the head, lapping up the tiny pearl of moisture that had formed. Billy's pitiful whimper was satisfying. Miles stared up at Billy's face while licking the tip slowly, letting his lower lip catch and pull on the sensitive organ.

The boy was easy to read and Miles could feel his flesh throbbing in his hand. He took his time, wrapping his lips around the hard shaft and laving his tongue over velvety skin while taking Billy into his mouth slowly. Every bob of Miles' head engulfed another portion of his erection. Billy's hands flew onto the hay bale behind him and fingers dug into the straw for support. Every slide of tongue made him whimper; every wet swallow made him moan. Miles could not remember a time when he had been that sensitive. Without warning, his cheeks hollowed as he pulled back while sucking with a vulgar slurping sound. Billy cringed and Miles pulled away, staring up at the boy to judge his reaction.

“Too much? You can't come now, that's no fun, rookie,” Miles chided, smirking up at Billy while the younger man's wet cock bobbed in his face.

“It feels too good Mister Upshur,” whined Billy.

“Goddammit. You better call me Miles,” growled Miles. He gripped Billy and gave a firm stroke, pushing the skin easily thanks to his saliva. Billy gasped at the touch, back arching against the hay.

“I don't think I can stand...”

“I think you can,” Miles answered, watching Billy's face as he flattened his tongue and dragged it along the underside of Billy's cock. The younger man's eyes squeezed shut and he gave a broken moan. “Not going to come yet, right?” Miles asked. Billy shook his head violently, knocking his glasses askew while squeezing his eyes shut.

Miles took his time, working Billy all the best ways he had experienced over the years. Billy took it all in stride, moaning and struggling to keep his knees from giving out. Miles' own hardness was difficult to ignore, but he focused only on Billy's pleasure. He wrought out moan after moan with his tongue and throat. Miles noticed all the wetness dripping down Billy's balls and perineum and used it to moisten a finger to tease between his cheeks, tracing his hole. He slid one slick finger in only as far as the first knuckle. Billy's head knocked back against the hay-bale in response. He came with a broken cry that startled several nearby cows.

“Miles,” he cried as his climax hit. 

Miles swallowed around his length, not letting him withdraw from his mouth. After Billy was spent, he leaned heavily upon the hay-bale as Miles stood up and pulled him into a sloppy kiss. Billy tried to push him away, making Miles laugh and break the kiss.

“What? Don't like the taste?” Miles teased, kissing Billy's closed mouth which had transformed into a thin line. “I think you taste good,” Miles purred and the slutty admission had Billy's mouth opening in a soft gasp. Miles used the opening to slip the tip of his tongue between Billy's lips and prod gently with his tongue. He smiled when Billy returned the action, shy tongue making soft contact before Miles deepened the kiss. Billy opened willingly, wrapping his arms around Miles and holding him tight.

“You should feel good too, Miles,” Billy said during a brief parting of lips. “I want you to be my first.”

Miles hummed at the sentiment, breaking the kiss and staring into glasses with smeared lenses. He chuckled and reached down to help tuck Billy back into his pants as he pulled them up.

“Wait, wha,” Billy questioned, as Miles surveyed the ground until he found Billy's belt and handed it back to the boy. “I can go again. I can do whatever you want,” Billy insisted.

“Don't push yourself,” Miles muttered. Billy surprised him by stepping forward and groping Miles' pants until he found what he sought. Strong hands squeezed at Miles' dick, clearly straining in his jeans.

“You're hard,” Billy stated, as though he had expected otherwise. “So why don't you want to?”

“I do want to,” Miles said simply. “I want to force your head down on my lap before fighting my way into your virgin ass.” Billy's moan was almost comical. Miles shook his head, grinning. “But I shouldn't. Your first time should be with someone special.”

Just because it had not been true for him, did not make it bad advice. What he really meant was that Billy's first time should be with someone who was not a walking human disaster. So anyone but Miles, basically. He sighed and turned back toward the truck.

“Special,” Billy stuttered, calling after the reporter, “...you are special.” Miles continued walking, his only response a slight shake of his head. “Yes. You are special to me. I've never felt this way about anyone.”

“...said the virgin,” muttered Miles. “Of course you haven't. Give it time. You're young.”

“It's because I'm the host, isn't it?” Billy asked, struggling to thread his belt through the loops while keeping pace with the retreating reporter.

“No,” Miles said, turning to look at Billy. “No. There is nothing wrong with you. You deserve happiness. You're a good person.”

“You have no way of knowing that about me. And are you trying to imply that you aren't a good person?” Billy asked.

Miles paused in walking to consider the question. “I like to think I am trying. I've messed up a lot lately but, I'm trying. Maybe I can be a good person one day.”

“You're wrong about me,” Billy whispered, catching up with Miles and grabbing hold of his arm. “I'm not how you think. I've done things...”

“So have I,” Miles said, cutting off the speech and meeting Billy's eyes. “I don't care. It's past. I think...I mean, I know now. I want to pursue something with you. This isn't some kind of proposal, I just...wouldn't mind being something more, like...we are dating.” The phrasing seemed immature in that moment, but Billy's eyes lit up.

“You mean that?” Billy asked, his voice breathy and nervous. Before Miles could answer, Billy's head snapped to the side. “Something's wrong.”

Miles was looking around the area but it all seemed the same as before: cows, cows, and more cows. Miles had good eyesight and he could not see any dangers that would cause any type of high alert. Then he noticed something strange amid the cows furthest in the distance. They seemed to be moving apart quickly from one particular area. Miles looked at Billy and shuddered when he saw that his eyes had turned completely black and alien within his skull.

Billy stalked off into the cows, parting them easily without causing any distress. Miles made considerably slower process since he seemed to have to stop and change direction to avoid every single cow between him and Billy. “Wait up! Billy, if it's something dangerous, you need a shotgun or at least a cattle prod or something!”

If Billy heard, he gave no indication as he continued his forward march through the sea of cattle. Miles was getting further and further behind, though a new noise was growing louder. There was the loud mooing of the distressed cows, but also a low pitched growl. Miles had posted enough news to hikers through his job to know that there were sometimes difficulties with hikers and wild animals. He began to imagine himself running into a wolf, bear, or mountain lion without any protection.

Miles finally came to an opening as the frightened animals were quickly stampeding away from the disturbance. Billy faced off against a large animal. At first, Miles mistook it for a wolf, but upon closer examination it seemed to be a large breed of dog. The animal was growling and tensed, ready to pounce.

“Billy!” Miles cried, though neither the dog nor Billy acknowledged him. Then he saw it, hovering over Billy's shoulder. The Walrider, in its humanoid form, seeming to float in the air on an amorphous cloud of nanites. The strange expressionless face calmly considered his host and the beast before floating forward quickly. The dog gave a sad yip before the swarm encompassed it, dragging the dog into the air where it hovered—and then exploded.

Miles did not know how else to describe what he watched. The dog was lifted into the air as though it weighed nothing and then blood splattered a large, circular area of the ground and a few larger pieces of bones and gray matter rained down on the ground. Miles was out of the splatter range, but he still cowered down and covered his head with his hands.

“Mister Upshur,” called Billy. Miles did not move from his duck and cover position. He heard footsteps approaching quickly. “Mister Upshur, are you okay? Everything's safe now.” Billy reached out and put a hand on Miles' shoulder.

Miles jumped up, pushing away the offered hand. “What the fuck, Billy?”

The confused expression on Billy's face was so pronounced it knocked his blood-splattered glasses askew. “I...sorry. I had to take care of that animal before it got to the cows.”

“You...you had to turn it inside out and scatter gore across a twenty foot radius?!” Miles' voice was rising to an alarming pitch.

“I'm sorry. You should not have had to witness that,” Billy said, pulling off his blood sprayed glasses and cleaning them on his shirt.

“Why did you do that?”

“I was protecting the cows,” Billy said.

“Bullshit. That was just a dog, I saw it,” Miles said, pushing his way past Billy and walking to the center of the blast radius. Miles had to cover his mouth to keep down a sudden, violent wave of bile. Miles was not a man who was easily unsettled, but the absolute destruction of the creature left him feeling shaken. There, among the bloody wreckage, Miles spotted it. He leaned down, gagging, and picked up a blue collar. The tags jangled as he examined the item, wiping away blood and gore to read a name. “Puddles,” Miles said, laughing at the absurdity. “The greatest threat to your cows was a fucking dog named Puddles?? You could have lured him away. Chased him off! What on earth could a dog, even a large one, do to a cow really?”

Billy was quiet ,staring at the bloody ground. His outfit and hat were splattered with red as though he were part of some kind of gory performance art instillation. “I'm sorry.”

“Was that you?” Miles demanded, turning to stare hard at Billy. “Was that you, and what you wanted to do...or was that...it?”

Billy shook his head, removing his sullied hat. “There's no difference. I am it and it is me.”

“You said before, in my hotel room, that you _weren't_ the Walrider,” Miles said.

“I'm not,” Billy snapped, dark blue eyes glaring up to meet Miles'. “I'm **not** the Walrider. But I **am** the host. It doesn't...it doesn't do anything without me allowing or willing it.”

“Are you sure about that?” Miles asked, his gray eyes narrowing. “Are you absolutely sure the swarm has never acted on its own, sentient desires?”

“How could it?” Billy asked, shaking his head in confusion. “It's a part of me. It can't do anything without me knowing and feeling it and I could stop it if I had to...it listens to me. We work together.”

“So you have never been asleep and woken up to find something...different,” Miles said, blushing as he remembered that night. Billy scratched his head before replacing his hat and shaking his head. “Never? You never found something...out of place, or couldn't find something, or had a cow suddenly go unaccounted for...”

Billy laughed, shaking his head even harder. “Mister Upshur I can't sit around blaming every lost sock on a curious Walrider. Shoot.” Billy's eyes twinkled with amusement. Miles' frown deepened.

“You're wrong,” Miles said, turning on his heel to stalk back toward the truck, the dog collar still in his hands.

“Mister...Miles,” Billy called, jogging to catch up to the other man. “Is something the matter? Did something happen? Is this about yesterday with the video and...”

“Take me back to the house,” Miles demanded, cutting Billy off with a raised hand. “I need to talk to your grandfather.”

“You...you can't tell him,” Billy said, his voice rising in panic. “He would have a heart attack from the worry of me using the swarm for such mundane tasks.”

“Take me back,” Miles reiterated. “Now.”


	11. Press Delete

Billy drove the pick-up in silence. Miles was grateful for that small favor. He was not sure he could talk to him without screaming. Miles clenched the dog collar in his hands, smoothing his thumb across the engraving on the metal tag. Puddles. Miles had never had a dog and did not particularly like the animals. What Miles did care about was protecting those being hurt unfairly.

The car pulled up in front of the rundown house and Billy shifted into park. He sighed as he turned to look at Miles in the passenger seat. “I'm sorry you saw that. I'm not a child you know. You can just talk to me about it. You don't have to go to my grandfather like you're tattling on some kid on the playground.”

“I'm not here to judge you and what you are or what you do,” Miles said, staring out the window to purposely avoid Billy's eyes. “But Wernicke...that asshole lied to me. He told me the Walrider was not a weapon.”

“A weapon? Of course it's not a weapon, it's a swarm of nanites that my body produces because of the way the scientists reprogrammed me with the...”

“Yeah. But why? They wouldn't sink all this money just for the scientific joy of it. Murkoff is expecting some kind of payoff for perfecting this technology. They're going to use it as a weapon.”

“That's going to be difficult then,” Billy said. Miles shrugged without turning to look at Billy and opened the truck door. “It'll be difficult because they probably can't control who becomes the host...” Miles ignored Billy, opening the door and jumping out before slamming it shut behind him. Billy quickly scrambled out of the aged vehicle to follow Miles. “I tried to tell you. I tried to tell you, I'm not the...innocent person you think I am. I've done things.”

Miles stopped at the door and turned to glare at Billy. “You slaughter animals like that frequently?”

“Define frequently?” Billy asked, his face completely serious.

Miles rolled his eyes and walked into the house stalking through the kitchen and into Wernicke's room. The life-support chair _whirred_ louder than usual and Billy walked in and immediately set into action fiddling with some dials and switches. Miles stood back near the wall and studied the pair as Billy worked. Sometimes it was difficult to even tell if Wernicke was awake, but all the vitals said he was still alive.

“It's a goddamn weapon,” Miles said without any prelude. The only response was Billy turning to give a sad look at Miles before continuing with his task. “Project Walrider is making a weapon. An indestructible killing machine. They wanted it to be sentient for fuck's sake! Making its own decisions, who lives and dies? Who thought this was a good idea? You?”

“What happened, Billy?” Wernicke asked in his usual wheezing tone.

“Dog came up, threatened the cows. Neutralized the threat,” Billy murmured.

“Yeah,” scoffed Miles. “He neutralized a threat named Puddles who wandered onto your property and was barking at some cows. And by neutralize he means shredded into a million pieces in midair and watered the ground with its blood.”

“You know better than to exercise the swarm's abilities where others might observe,” Wernicke said. “You put us all at danger. After all we have done to keep you safe, you would risk it for such a simple threat?”

“You know how it is,” hissed Billy. He pushed his wide-brimmed hat off his head and set it on the bed. He combed his fingers through his wavy hair compulsively.

“Well, I don't know how it is, so enlighten me,” Miles said, his anger starting to diminish as he witnessed the strange behavior. The all too familiar buzzing began in the room and Billy began to pace nervously.

“It's not _human_ ,” Billy spat as he paced, not looking at anyone in particular. “The swarm is only concerned with its own continued existence. It fights to keep me healthy and young. It fights to keep me mentally happy so I'm not a danger to myself and therefore its continuance. And any threat, no matter how small, it immediately wishes only to neutralize it as quickly as possible.”

“So the Walrider killed that dog? You didn't want to?” Miles pressed, even though he could tell by the increased pacing that Billy was growing agitated and pushing too hard could make him unstable. Considering what happened to Puddles, Miles felt his body tense up in case he needed to run.

“I...I didn't want to kill someone's dog. But, what it wants and what I want...it gets kind of jumbled in my brain. Sometimes it's easier to just agree than to fight it,” Billy said. He abruptly stopped pacing and stared up at Miles. The buzzing sound was still in the background and the edges of Billy's irises seemed to be leaking into his sclera.

“So you can control it?”

“Of course,” Billy said.

“Mister Upshur,” wheezed Wernicke from his chair, “Billy did not ask to have this thrust upon him. It was a struggle for years to get to where he is now. I am afraid I may have glossed over some of the details of Billy's lateral ascension. Exactly why it was not hard to convince everyone that he was dead.”

“No,” Billy pleaded, staring at Wernicke in his chair. “Grandfather, please, let me...let me tell him. I don't like the way you tell it and...” Billy stopped talking to grab at his head and the buzzing in the room grew much louder. It was so loud Miles had to rub his own forehead to stem the acute headache the noise caused. It was a strange sound like static over the airwaves mixed with bees swarming around their hive. “Excuse me,” Billy muttered, pushing out of the room and walking through the house.

“He disintegrated that dog,” Miles said once Billy was gone. “There was nothing left but a few chunks and a fuck-ton of blood. You knew about this? You knew the Walrider could do this?”

“It was created to be a tool, Mister Upshur,” Wernicke said, his finger flicking to turn the chair slightly to face Miles. “A hammer is a tool. When used incorrectly, the tool could injure the user. In the wrong hands, a hammer is a weapon. I did not mislead you. The Walrider is no more a weapon than a hammer.”

“Does he kill often?” Miles asked, not sure if he meant Billy or if he'd began to think of the Walrider as a male. There was no answer, and no change to Wernicke's slack face. “Humans?” Still nothing but the click and whir of machines. “Fuck this...” Miles said before storming out of Wernicke's room and walking down to Billy's. The buzzing grew louder as he got closer. Billy was inside, sitting on his bed with his face held in his hands and his body shivering.

“So you really are a monster? You kill pets and people?”

Billy slowly lowered his hands and stared at the floor, giving no indication he had even heard Miles speak.

“Tell me.”

“Why do you want to know? Is this for your article—your investigation? Or are you asking as my...lover.”

“I'm asking as a friend,” Miles said, sighing. He was pleased when the buzzing died down. Miles pressed closer to Billy. His presence seemed to have a calming effect.

“I did not know what had happened to me. I was an angry child. My mother was dead and I wanted all of them dead. The Walrider fused with me and...it took over for a while. I let it. It happily fulfilled my childish wishes. I was immature and given such a great power.I did not kill Grandfather. He had been the only one fighting for me. The rest of the scientists and technicians were...well, you saw,” Billy said.

Miles choked back an urge to vomit. “You're a murderer...”

“Do...do you really think so?” Billy asked, turning sad eyes on Miles.

“People died because of something you did.”

“I didn’t know. Grandfather said it was like giving a child a powerful tool. I made it dangerous and my anger combined with the power of the swarm took out every living soul in that laboratory,” Billy said. “I was forced into something far beyond my capacity. The result hurt people—but I was as much a victim as them. They died, but I...I'm not dead, but what am I?”

Miles should have felt afraid—Billy was admitting to splattering a laboratory full of humans against the walls. Were they talking about a handful of people, or several dozen? Miles did not know. Did it matter? He stroked at his chin, feeling the scruff there, as he tried to determine his next move.

“My life was full of darkness. My father. The experiments. The...the therapy,” Billy said, his voice sounding hollow. “Once my mother was dead I knew I was alone and thought that no one else cared. Grandfather did, though. He told everyone the swarm had destroyed me and everyone else that day. Buried evidence of the contrary. He made his own arrangements then retired and notice of his death seemed inevitable. His advanced age, plus the stress of witnessing that...no one really questioned. Murkoff was quick to put it all behind them.”

“But they haven't. Not anymore,” Miles said, feeling even sicker than before. They were experimenting on humans, potentially experimenting on Chris, and the end result was a sentient swarm of machines that could tear a person apart from the inside out. Shit. “I'm going to have to finish this story. I intend to publish it. You know that, right?”

Billy turned on the bed until he was looking directly into Miles' eyes. “You do what you have to do. Maybe you will even help those people. But please, don't leave.” Billy frowned as he took a deep breath. “Don’t leave me?”

Miles' eyes went wide and his mouth fell open. Billy was not afraid of Miles exposing him, but he was afraid of Miles leaving. “I'm not leaving,” Miles said.

“Oh, thank you,” Billy said, reaching forward to cup Miles' face and kissing him. Miles happily accepted the attention, still feeling slightly shaken that someone wanted him to stick around so badly. “There's still so much about you I need to learn. I liked what you said earlier, about dating. We should date,” Billy said before adding, “...casually, of course.”

“A casual date with a dog murderer,” Miles said, frowning. “You can't do things like that. If you really do control this thing, then you need to make it count. Don't kill creatures. Don't you dare hurt a human being. You have to promise me...”

“I promise,” Billy said, kissing Miles again, deeper, breathing into his mouth. Miles pulled Billy against his body and he responded with a seductive roll of his hips. “I would never hurt you. _We_ would never hurt you. We promise you.”

Miles nodded. “I need a shower...”

“...you can take one here, I just dried some towels this morning...”

“...and I need to do some work. I'm going to my hotel tonight,” Miles said. He definitely needed a night of drinking after what he had seen and his motel room was the best place to do that.

“You're sure,” Billy purred, moving his hand to grope along Miles' thigh until he found proof of his arousal and gave a firm squeeze. “Sure you don't want to stay here and let me repay you for earlier. Your mouth felt so good. Let me show you.”

“It will have to wait,” Miles said. He did not want to get into the fact that Miles knew those blood splatters on Billy's shirt were from someone's pet dog and it was really deterring any romantic feelings despite his body’s physical reaction.

“Listen. If we are going to date,” Billy said, licking his lips before he added again, “...then we should go on a date. Come out with me tomorrow. I'll take you somewhere special.”

“That sounds nice,” Miles said, sighing as he looked over at Billy. “I'll come back tomorrow.”

“I will...that is to say...” Billy started then his young face creased in wrinkles as he seemed to concentrate to find the right words. He sighed and slouched forward until he could rest his head against Miles' shoulder. “I miss you when you're not around. Ever since you showed up everything feels...not right, when you’re away.”

“I'll be back. Promise,” Miles said. He pulled in Billy for another quick hug before standing up and walking out of the house to his Jeep. Billy watched him drive away, a somber look on his young face. Miles found himself not wanting to leave, but he could not afford to get behind in his work again. Maybe he actually missed Billy as well.

Back at the motel, it was business as usual. Miles hammered away on his laptop while the local news blared on the low-definition television. There were still no cups in the room so the bourbon bottle was open and sitting out on the desk.

After putting the finishing touches on a post about a “Tubular Sale on Inflatable Sleds” Miles pushed his chair back and slammed his forehead on the table in frustration. This was really his life? Even two large gulps from the bottle could not erase the taste of bitter failure in his mouth. Of course that's when his phone would ring.

“Upshur.”

“What did you do to me, Miles?” Waylon's voice was quiet and serious.

“Waylon? What's wrong?”

“The last time you were here,” Waylon said, “you told me that you got off the other night. What did you do to me?”

“Nothing...” Miles drew the word out very long, “...much.”

“It's important to our continued friendship that I know what you did.”

Miles hummed, feeling rather confused and it was not all from the bourbon. “I kissed you.” Miles could hear the sharp inhale clearly over the phone. An uncomfortable silence followed.

“Is that all?” Waylon asked.

“I kissed you, and you kissed back. But, you were asleep.”

“That's not so bad,” Waylon said. “So when you said you got off on it, it was just an expression, you really meant you kissed me and liked it.”

“No, kissing you excited me so I humped you a little,” Miles said, giving a humorless bark of laughter. “Like a horny fucking teenager—I needed some kind of friction between us. Like an itch I had to scratch. I shouldn't have, and I am really sorry. I did not touch you...”

“How could you not touch me if you were grinding on me?” Waylon asked, and his voice was breathy and light. Miles' eyebrows rose in surprise. Waylon did not sound mad in the least.

“I mean I never went under your clothes. I only touched myself and I was kissing your neck,” said Miles. At first Miles thought he had heard a disappointed sigh from Waylon's side, until he realized it was actually a moan. If he had not have been drunk, he would not have pushed the issue. He should have ended the call there.

“I was straddling your body,tasting your neck while I brought myself off,” Miles said, his voice low and rough. “You were so...soft and warm, and I knew I should stop but...”

“Why?” Waylon breathed into the phone. “Why would you do that...”

“Because to me you're irresistible. I know I shouldn't want you this badly, but...fuck, I do, and I can't seem to convince my head that it's impossible.” There was a very long pause.

“What would you have done if I woke up?”

It was a simple question but it caught Miles completely off guard. He had not even considered that possibility that night. “I don't know. Try to blame it on the beer. Try to blame it on you and say you initiated it and didn't remember. I’m a selfish asshole I would have gone into self-preservation mode.”

“What if I reciprocated?”

“Then I would have stripped you naked and fucked you all night long. What kind of question is that?” Miles chuffed into the phone. “I'm a bad friend to you. Since that night last year, I look at you that way. Yeah, you're my best friend, but I wanted you too. I wanted more.”

What the fuck was he saying? Miles groaned and put his hand over his mouth to stop the pointless stream of drivel. “You should hate me.” A pause. “Do you hate me?”

“No,” Wayon whispered. “Surprised, but not angry. Except you need to not do anything like that ever again. Eddie would kill you.”

“I'm not afraid of your meathead boyfriend...” Miles stopped. Images of Billy's hopeful little smile crept into Miles' drunken mind and refused to leave. The boy was starting to grow on him. “I'm...dating someone new right now. I can get past this--I just need some time. I haven't been obsessing over it as much recently, I haven't watched the video in...”

“Please, delete the video,” Waylon interjected, breaking Miles' train of thought.

“I...I should but it's difficult...”

“It's not difficult. Press delete.”

_Beep_.

Miles moved back to the cheap desk, recovering the bottle. He opened the video—one last time. He started it right near the end. After the initial experimentation, both men forgot about the camera. The camera angle was terrible and crooked. They were both only visible from the waist up. Miles' head hovered over Waylon's, moving in time with his body's thrusts. Miles remembered it so clearly in his mind. The original film-making purpose was forgotten when he was buried in that heat. Waylon was mewling and writhing, hands clawing at Miles, and for no real agreed upon reason they kissed. Long. Deep.

Miles bent his face down near Waylon's ear and whispered something that was only a mumble on the video. Waylon's response was immediate. Where Miles could not see, he broke out in a huge smile. Moments later, a shiny tear ran down his cheek. Miles had not known. He had laughed it off the next day. Denied having feelings. Blamed it on the heat of the moment. Broke Waylon's heart.

Delete his most precious memory? Well, he owed his friend that much. Before he could delete the file, however, Miles fired off a quick email to Waylon's main address and attached the video with the subject line: “Watch it and pretend the day after never happened.” True to his word, Miles deleted the file and his copy of the email. He even emptied the recycling bin. Twice. The video was gone. Miles passed out with his computer still open and running.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The update rate has to decrease from 2 chapters a week to 1 chapter a week. While most of the story is written, I am dealing with some re-writes and struggling with a writer's block and slightly overwhelmed having two works going at once as well as other projects. But what the heck, I love a challenge. Next chapter will be out ASAP and then hope to keep a 1 a week schedule until the end. Which, we're about half way there as I mentioned.


	12. First Taste

“Whoa, are you alright Miles?” Billy asked when he opened the door the next morning. Miles was clutching a paper coffee cup and grimacing with his eyes squinted shut. The harsh words caused Miles to flinch.

“Talk quieter,” he grumbled as he pushed past Billy into the house, thankful to be out of the harsh morning light.

“I went out early, took care of grandfather, and showered. I'm ready for our date,” Billy beamed. Miles groaned and threw himself down on the couch.

“Give some time for my coffee and Advil to kick in,” Miles said, without lifting his head from the couch.

“Okay but we have a bit of a hike...”

“A bit of a hike?”

“Yeah, I said I would take you somewhere special,” Billy said, smiling. “I thought we could take a hike.”

“Shit,” muttered Miles. “I am really not a hike kind of person. And today is definitely not the day that I become one considering how badly my head is pounding...can we just, sit together quietly for a while?”

Billy sat down on the couch and ran a hand through Miles' disheveled hair. “We can take that away for you.” Miles shivered from a sensation like having all of his blood replaced with ice water in an instant. “It's not anything harmful to you. The bots are microscopic you won't even feel anything. They just kind of go in and repair what damage you've done to yourself.” Billy gently stroked the back of his hand across Miles' scruffy cheek. “Let me help you?”

Everything inside of Miles said he should refuse and keep the Walrider as far away as possible, but his reporter-sense was going insane. To experience something that very few in the world ever had or would? And his head really _did_ hurt. Curiosity won.

“Alright,” Miles said.

There was no change in Billy's posture but the familiar buzzing sound grew in Miles' ears. It was not the deafening roar Miles had heard before, but more of a soothing humming filling the area and rattling his teeth. Billy looked hazy, the nanites swarming around him thick enough that they were almost visible to the human eye, like black smoke dissipating just before Miles could make it out. Then there was the strange sensation of his headache lifting. The feeling of pounding and tightening in his skull evaporated and the relief was euphoric. Miles laughed out loud and Billy smiled, his inky black eyes glittering in the low light of the living room. 

Billy stood up after a short minute and Miles realized that not only was his headache gone, but also his sensitivity to light and sound, his nausea, and the overall feeling like he had not gotten enough rest. “Fucking miracle,” Miles said, jumping to his feet and looking at Billy with reverence plain on his face. “That's...that's amazing.” 

Billy looked embarrassed by the praise and gave an uncomfortable chuckle. “I'm glad I could help you.”

“What happens now? How did they do it? Are they going to stay inside of me now? Is the fix permanent?”

“Uhh I really don't know these answers,” Billy said, scratching at his head. “And I've never really used it much except on Grandfather. I know the swarm does something to me as well since I never get normal sicknesses like viruses or whatever—and I look younger than I am. I don't know if the swarm would agree to helping just anyone.”

“Thank you,” Miles mumbled, wrapping his arms around Billy in an awkward hug.

“Now that you're feeling better, are you ready for our date?”

“Sure,” Miles said, pulling away and stretching his limbs. “I feel amazing, I am totally up for anything.”

“Great, let’s get going on our hike,” said Billy.

“Anything but that....”

“Come on now, Mister Upshur,” said Billy, grinning as he grabbed Miles' elbow and led him toward the door. “It'll be fun.”

Billy drove the decrepit truck to the edge of his property before parking it and walking to the aged wooden fence. It was a bright day with only a few perfect fluffy clouds in the distance crowning the mountains always visible on the horizon. The fenced in areas had very few trees, but beyond the fence the foliage was much denser. Billy promptly climbed the fence, perching for a moment at the top before dropping down. He smiled back and Miles and beckoned with his hand. “This way!”

Miles frowned at the obstacle. He climbed to the top with careful steps and paused at the top before jumping down. He landed badly, stumbling almost directly into Billy. 

“I take it you're not much of an outdoors person,” said Billy, starting to walk at a moderate ambling pace. The area was hilly, but the slope was so gentle it barely felt like any incline.

“I don't mind roughing it when I have to for work or a story,” Miles said, following close beside Billy. “But I mean, in my free time, I'd rather kick back and watch TV or something.”

“I remember TV. From when I was a kid, ya know? Before…”

“Shit, sorry, I forgot your condition makes that impossible,” Miles mumbled as he tripped on his own feet in his attempt to keep up with Billy. The boy was walking quickly and hardly winded while Miles was already breathing harder.

“Why did you want to be a reporter?” Billy asked, pausing for Miles to catch up and beginning again at a slightly more ambling pace.

“Wow, it really is a date—you're asking me first date questions,” Miles said, grinning. 

“Sorry. Is that bad? I've never dated anyone,” said Billy, his cheeks turning an adorable shade of pink. 

“No, it's...nice,” Miles said, grinning to himself. “Well, when I was fairly young after the accident I met a really great reporter. She was writing a piece on foster children and adoption because she wanted to help. She interviewed me for her story. I was really inspired. I like to write, but more importantly I wanted to help people. I still want that, but I'm not sure there is an answer in most of these situations.” Miles sighed as Billy took a turn through a denser patch of pine trees. 

“How can you say that though? After you write up about Murkoff, you'll be helping those patients. If their treatment is anything like mine...you'll be a savior to those people. I want you to help them,” said Billy.

“Murkoff will find a way around it,” Miles said, ducking to avoid a branch that Billy pushed toward him accidentally. “They got out of the water thing. Turned it into a PR opportunity. Writing about the soldiers didn't help them. Look at Chris.”

“Who is Chris?” Billy asked. Miles frowned, hardly realizing that he had mentioned his ex-boyfriend so casually when he was not sure he really wanted to have _that_ conversation yet. Still, he had no real way of avoiding it without lying. 

“He’s my ex,” Miles said, giving a shrug as though mentioning him was no big deal. As though mentioning him didn’t bring back the acute pain of having to abandon the man he had loved for years. “I think I mentioned that my last relationship ended with him being committed to an institution? Chris is my ex-boyfriend and he’s a patient at Mount Massive.” Billy kept walking, his face neutral as he absorbed what Miles had to say. “We never officially broke up. I wanted to be there for him, experiencing PTSD and terrifying delusions that led to self-harm. No matter what I did though…towards the end he did not even look like I remembered. He stopped even responding to me when I visited. No idea if he even recognized me.”

“I'm sorry,” Billy said, pausing to give a sympathetic look back at Miles. “That must have been difficult.”

“Well, yeah,” Miles said, brushing off the pity. “No idea what's happening to him. And it sucks because it always feels like something looming over my life. He never broke up with me, he didn't die, he didn't move away, he was sitting right there in front of me but he was a thousand miles away and now...I just don't know.”

“Your story will help him,” Billy said.

“If he can even be helped,” Miles said, rubbing his hand over his face to wipe away the sweat now forming on his brow from the quick walking. He could not stop the intrusive memory of Jeremy Blaire telling him about Chris' continued deterioration. “This took a dark turn. Let's get back to some easier questions...”

Billy was happy to chatter away as they walked, keeping the questions light and fun. They talked about music, books, sports, and other general interest topics. The time passed quickly and soon Billy held out a hand to halt their walking. “Here it is!”

Miles' forehead creased in confusion as he looked around. There were the same hills, rocks, and trees. Billy's face lit up with childish glee as he pushed aside some pine branches and motioned with his head for Miles to follow. Past the branches was a considerable drop off and a small lake pooled at the bottom. Miles swayed slightly at the feeling of being so high up. It had not felt like they were climbing a mountain so how did this drop off occur?

“It's not natural,” Billy said, as though reading Miles' thoughts. Wait, had he read Miles' thoughts? When Miles narrowed his eyes Billy gave a sheepish grin and chuckled. “They dig out the dirt and move it to other places. It’s not in use anymore.” Billy walked to the edge and crouched down before sitting with his legs dangling over the edge. “I like this place.”

Miles crouched down and inched closer to the edge, holding onto Billy's arm as he copied his posture and let his legs hang down. The afternoon sunlight glinted off the pool below and filtered through the trees leaving their sitting spot a dappled with light. Miles let out a long breath he had not realized he was holding. “Looks like a steep drop.” 

“Yeah. It's a little bit scary,” Billy said with a large grin. “Exciting, right?”

“You need to get out more, kid,” Miles said, shaking his head. “Putting your life in danger isn't a normal past time.” Miles leaned slightly forward and stared straight down, remembering the last time he had sat so close to a dangerous edge. 

“Yeah well, nothing much about me is normal huh,” Billy said. “I don't travel, don't have friends, can't watch television. I like to get away from that house sometimes and sitting here like this...makes me feel alive.”

“Does the swarm like it?” Miles asked.

“The swarm doesn't work like that. It doesn't have likes or dislikes...”

“But you said it likes me,” Miles interrupted.

“I like you,” Billy said, turning his blue eyes on Miles with a serious expression. “The swarm's feelings are...complicated. It's not human.”

Miles leaned closer to Billy until their shoulders touched. “I like you too.”

“Really?”

“I need to know though. How is this going to work? I mean, if we decided to date and make it a long term thing...I'm not sure I can live without the Internet or TV or cell phone reception,” Miles said.

Billy's shoulders slumped as he frowned and looked down the steep drop-off. “That is a bit much to ask yeah...”

“Hey,” Miles said, reaching up to cup Billy's chin and turn his face until their eyes met again, “that wasn't a rejection. I'm asking because I'm...I'm giving it serious thought. Last night...” Miles paused and his canted down. “Well, I talked to Waylon, my friend back in Denver. And that's over. It was never much of anything in the first place. We are just friends. So I'm thinking of...trying the relationship thing again...with you I mean.”

“You're cute when you're flustered,” Billy said, chuckling at Miles' discomfort. Miles turned to face the other direction to hide the heat rushing to his cheeks. 

“Yeah well, I suck at this stuff obviously.”

“It's new to me too,” Billy whispered. “I honestly did not expect to ever find someone willing to date a monster.”

“You're not a monster,” Miles said, sighing to himself. “So you have a little darkness inside. We all do. Besides, Rudy said the Walrider wasn't a monster—even that people called it a god.”

Billy just chuckled and shook his head. “We should head back. I have to care for Grandfather and maybe we can cook a pizza?”

“Shit, you make your own pizza?”

“Uh, no, it's frozen. But we could put it in the oven together.”

“Sounds perfect,” said Miles.

The trek back seemed twice as long to Miles and his sore legs. He was happy to heat up the pizza while Billy took care of Wernicke. Miles was feeling like an old man himself and craving sleep. After dinner, Miles was content to sit on the couch with one arm around Billy's shoulder. He wondered if he could crash right there on Billy’s couch. “You can sleep here, it's not a problem.”

“Would you fucking quit that,” Miles said, laughing at Billy's frightened expression. “It's creepy.”

“Sorry. I just...sometimes you're so easy to read. I don't realize you didn't say something about it,” Billy said, giving a sheepish grin. 

“I can sleep over. I'm too tired to get any work done today anyways so won't bother going back to that ratty motel...” 

Billy had more evening chores to take care of before he could call it a night. Miles took a long, hot shower, dressed in some of Billy's loose pajamas, and pulled back the covers on one twin bed just as Billy walked back into the bedroom. He paused at the doorway, watching Miles with dilated blue eyes. “Do you need anything?” Billy asked as he approached the bed.

Miles sat down and yawned, ruffling his drying hair. “I'm good,” said Miles, patting the bed next to him. Billy was quick to take the offer and sat down beside him on the bed. “I had a really good...” Miles was cut off when Billy pressed his lips firmly against his, muffling his response. Miles' eyes easily fell shut as he sighed into the kiss. 

“It's not fair Miles,” Billy said, breaking from Miles' lips and planting a trail of kisses down his neck. “After everything we've done, you still won't let me touch you.”

“I never said you couldn't touch me,” Miles said. Billy slowly dragged his tongue across Miles' earlobe, causing Miles to shudder. “I wouldn't mind you touching me now.”

Billy jumped at the opportunity, his hand immediately flying to Miles' crotch and groping along his thigh until he found what he sought. The thin boxers and pajama pants did nothing to protect Miles from Billy's warm, firm touch. Miles pushed his hips into the touch, grinning when Billy's movements paused. “That's a start. You should touch me more.”

“I want to touch you everywhere,” Billy said, his breath caressing Miles ear and making him bite back a moan. “I've wanted to since the moment I saw you.”

Miles chuckled and pulled away from Billy, pulling his cotton t-shirt over his head. “I have that effect on people.”

Billy did not seem the catch the joke, staring at Miles' bare chest. The young man ran his fingers through Miles' chest hair and down across his stomach. “So sexy.”

Miles was having a difficult time keeping himself from jumping Billy in that moment. He knew they weren't ready to push to anything that advanced, but the ego stroking was as good, or better, than the dick stroking. Miles could drown in the pleasure Billy's actions were giving him. “Still want to put it in your mouth?” Miles gave a small smirk.

“Yes,” said Billy. “Please Mister Upshur.”

Miles pulled down his pants and boxers in one movement, allowing his erection to spring free. He grinned when the boy stared, his face going slack. “That's not my name. Now, you don't have to take the whole thing in your mouth on the first time. You can take it at your own pace.”

Miles sat back on his elbows on the twin bed. He propped up a pillow to allow him to sit up and watch Billy's actions and offer helpful advice if necessary. It wasn't that it felt horrible to receive a sloppy, unskilled blowjob—Miles just wanted to think he left the young man with better knowledge going forward. “Come here and get your first taste.”

Billy crawled onto the bed, knees on either side of Miles' body. Miles pulled Billy in for a kiss, one hand caressing the boy's cheek. Miles skillfully opened the boy's mouth with his tongue, deepening the kiss. When he pulled away, he met Billy's eyes and was alarmed when he saw his dilated pupils seemed to be leaking into his sclera. Well, the Walrider had to be a part as well, Miles supposed he should get used to it. A gentle pressure on Billy's face moved him closer to Miles' bare lap. “Lick it,” Miles said. 

The young man was staring at Miles' groin as he wet his lips. He leaned forward and gave a tentative swipe of his tongue across the tip. Miles inhaled at the contact, nodding down at Billy when he glanced up. “Like that. Do what you think would feel good.”

Billy looked back down at the hard shaft in front of his face. He began licking Miles in earnest, sliding his tongue across every inch with broad, slow licks, followed by shorter flicks of his tongue around the crown. Miles had to calm his breathing. Fuck. It had been too long since he had been with another person, and Billy's tongue felt amazing. Without prompting, Billy wrapped his lips around the head of Miles' cock and tongued his slit.

“Fffff...” Miles exhaled, watching Billy practice his technique. “Everything as you expected?”

“Better,” Billy said before sliding his mouth further down Miles' length. He pulled up, releasing Miles with a lewd slurp. “You taste so good.” When Billy glanced back up, his eyes were black pools and Miles began to feel the teasing touch of one of the Walrider's tendrils along his thighs. 

“Are you controlling that?” Miles asked, his voice trembling slightly.

“Of course,” Billy said before swallowing Miles as far as he could. The boy immediately gagged and lifted his head up. Miles could see gray tears in his strange, black eyes. 

“Don't push yourself,” Miles said, his chest heaving as he stared down to watch Billy work. The young man gave no reply, instead resuming his work as the exploratory touches of the Walrider honed in on Miles' ass. Miles was ashamed of the broken, pathetic whimper that escaped his lips. Billy noticed and raised an eyebrow as he stared up at Miles.

A tendril pressed its way inside just as Miles met Billy's strange eyes. A smug grin appeared on the young man's face at the way the reporter gasped and moaned. Billy stroked Miles, gripping the base and aiming it at his mouth. “Don't come yet, Mister Upshur.”

Miles was too far gone to correct the slip back into the formal address. He thrust his hips upwards, gagging Billy again. The seeking appendage wriggling against Miles' insides had him gasping. The return of a wet mouth brought him quickly to the edge. 

“Dammit,” Miles groaned with frustration. Right before he reached the edge of no return, the attentions on all of his erogenous zones ceased simultaneously. His eyes flew open and he was unaware of when he had closed them. He stared down at Billy, panting for breath. 

“What's wrong, Mister Upshur?” Billy purred, looking up at a bewildered Miles with his face still so close to the Miles' shaft. “I thought you liked it to last a little longer than that?” The strange tentacle that pushed inside of him was thicker and more textured than the others, drawing a broken moan out of the reporter as it began to pump slowly. 

“Fuck, Billy,” Miles cursed, throwing his head back against the wall. Miles was having trouble staying upright. His body wanted to arch and writhe under the strange ministrations. The young man chuckled as Miles slid down until he was almost flat on his back, pushing back against the intruding member. Before long, the seeking tendrils put pressure against the spot that made Miles jerk uncontrollably. The Walrider seemed to know exactly where to touch... “Are you in my mind right now?” Miles asked, breathlessly.

“I can tell what you like,” Billy said, looking up at Miles' face. “Watching your pleasure is the most erotic thing we've ever seen.”

We. Miles' flesh broke out in bumps and he felt an involuntary shiver wrack his spine. Miles put his feet on the bed, bending his knees, and rocked his hips shamelessly drawing a wanton whimper from this audience. Billy lowered his head and took Miles into his mouth, slurping around his shaft .The Walrider's appendages continued to pump in and out like the pistons on a machine. The moans were continuous and Miles felt his body tensing in preparation. He gasped for air, reaching his hand down to tangle in Billy's wavy hair.

“I'm close,” Miles groaned, hips lifting off the small bed. “If you don't want to drink it, you better move.” Billy did not move. His actions and pressure continued without interruption just as Miles threw his head back against the bed and cried out. A hot throat swallowed around his throbbing cock and Miles could not remember a more powerful orgasm. 

Billy pulled up looking breathless with spit smeared across his young face and eyes still inky black. He laid on top of the exhausted reporter and kissed him, sharing the taste. Miles did not mind in the least. He deepened their kiss, wrapping his arms tightly around his lover. The realization woke his brain from its post-coital haze. Billy was his lover. The young man pulled back to look at Miles when he ceased returning the kiss. He stared up at the young man, his eyes slowly returning back to their deep blue state. 

“Are you okay Mister Upshur?”

Miles rolled his eyes and dropped his head with a thud. “I am better than okay,” Miles said, giving a tired chuckle. “I haven't come that hard in a long, long time.”

“Really?” Billy asked, his voice rising with excitement. “It was...okay?”

“Oh it was sloppy, in the best way,” Miles grinned, his hand reaching out to ruffle Billy's sex styled hair. “You suck a dick like you're starving for it.”

Billy's already flushed face faded into an even deeper blush. “I have been wanting to try that for a while now.”

Miles' limbs felt like they were made of lead. He could not move out of the twin bed. “Is it alright if I use this bed for tonight?” Miles asked, closing his eyes and sighing deeply.

“Don't move,” Billy said. Miles felt the weight lift from the mattress. Seconds later, there was a scraping of wood against the floor and then a thud against the side of the bed. Miles' eyes flew open in time to catch the swarm floating near the ceiling in its humanoid form. He did not feel afraid. He was too tired to feel afraid probably. He was more confused until he saw that in that brief moment Billy and the Walrider had managed to move the end tables and push the twin beds together. Billy jumped onto the other bed and scooted his body to the bed until he could drape his arm across the seam between the beds and onto Miles' shoulder. “We can sleep together?”

“I would like that,” Miles said, giving a long yawn. “Goodnight Billy.” Miles felt something pushing his shaggy brown hair away from the drying sweat on his brow, and he did not know if it was Billy's fingers or the tendrils of the swarm.

“Goodnight, Miles.”


	13. More Than a Crush

Miles did not budge until morning. He knew that Billy should have been up and down all night assisting Wernicke, but he had not disturbed Miles at all. He woke up to Billy snuggling against his back, ignoring the seam where the two beds were joined. Miles remained still, enjoying the feeling of having a body nearby. The sound of another person breathing in the warm room. Then it occurred to Miles that he had been made into the little spoon. He immediately rolled over to face his bedmate.

Billy looked so peaceful, considering what Miles knew to lie beneath the surface. He curiously reached out a hand to feel across Billy’s wrist where it rest on the bed. Billy was warm; his pulse was strong. Too strong. Miles wondered if his very blood was infested with the nanites. Miles was staring so intently at Billy’s arm that he did not realize his touch had woken the other man.

“You snore,” Billy said, yawning.

“Yeah well, you cuddle,” Miles said.

“I’ve never shared a bed—that I can remember, I mean,” Billy said, sitting up in bed. Sleep had left his thick, wavy hair sticking out in all directions. He groped around on the mattress until he found his glasses and placed them on his face, crooked.

“This wasn’t sharing a bed. We each had our own. They were just close together,” said Miles.

“Whatever you call it. I’m just glad you slept over,” Billy whispered. “You can stay here anytime. My soul feels at peace when you’re nearby.” 

Miles chuckled softly. “Sorry. But that’s just, the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard. You’ve been reading too many romance novels. You need a television.”

“The Walrider interferes with the satellite, and the radio, and there’s no cable out here,” Billy explained.

“That…makes sense,” Miles said. “Doesn’t it get boring out here?”

“There’s other things we could do,” Billy said, his hand sliding under the blanket to squeeze Miles’ bare thigh.

“Last night…” Miles started before exhaling as he tried to put his thoughts in order. “I’ve never felt that way. Here I was thinking that I was giving you a sex education.”

Billy laughed, moving his hand up his thigh until Miles finally caught his wrist and stopped the progress. “You’re not up for more, Mister Upshur?”

“I would gladly accept anything you two want,” Miles said, leaning onto his side to be able to kiss Billy’s lips. “At this moment I feel unable to resist.” A strange beeping began to blare from Billy’s beeper, straight out of 2001. 

“Ugh, why is it always times like these that I have to check on Grandfather. It’ll only be a minute,” said Billy, standing up and pulling on his jeans. He opened his bureau and took out a fresh, green flannel shirt to wear. He was still buttoning the shirt as he started to walk out the door. Miles followed, still wearing Billy’s pajamas he had borrowed. He was almost to the kitchen when there was a knock on the front door. Miles stared at the locked door and listened for any movement from Billy. The machines must make it difficult to hear in the backroom. Miles shrugged and began to undo all of the locks. He left the chain in place as he cracked the door open.

“Yes?” Miles asked the stranger wearing some type of white uniform and wheeling two large oxygen tanks behind him. The man was taller than Miles with a chiseled jaw, striking green eyes, and sandy blond hair. He smiled in greeting, showing a row of perfect white teeth.  
“Hi there! Deliver for Mr. Mustermann. I usually talk to Billy, is he around?”

Miles stared at the man more closely. A name tag on his lapel identified him as Paul, and his hand gripping the handle on the carrying device showed a plain gold wedding band. Hadn’t Billy mentioned that he had had a crush on the man who delivered medical supplies? “Billy,” Miles finally called lazily toward the back room.

Moments later, Billy appeared in the walkway to the kitchen and looked from Miles to the opened door. “Oh, Paul! Sorry about that, I did not hear you knock. I was just switching out the last tank…”

“Then I got here just in time!”

“Sure thing, bring them in,” said Billy with a smile. Miles stared at Billy with narrowed eyes. Was that the hint of a blush he detected on the boy’s cheeks? Miles undid the chain and opened the door for the strangers, puffing his chest out a little further and standing up as straight as possible. Paul gave a friendly smile, staring strangely at Billy and Miles. Without thinking, Miles hooked his arm around Billy’s waist and pulled the boy’s side flush against his own. 

“You need help?” he asked a bewildered Billy.

“Uh, I can probably handle it. Do you mind finishing up Grandfather’s meal?” Billy asked, obviously flustered.

“Sure thing,” Miles said, leaning over to kiss Billy’s cheek while watching Paul’s expression out of the corner of his eye. The man looked slightly embarrassed and diverted his eyes. Well. What had Miles expected? He released Billy and sauntered into the backroom, hearing the two men chatting while bringing the tanks in and talking about other supplies still to be unloaded. 

Miles entered Wernicke’s room and plopped down on the chair positioned near his massive life-support contraption. “Special delivery from your boy, Paul. I get to finish lunch,” Miles said, giving a frown at the tube of nutrients that had yet to be fed, “…yum.”

Wernicke did not complain or comment at the strange treatment. He seemed numb to any discomfort from the procedures or embarrassment from needing so much extensive help. He merely sat, wheezing away, unmoving except for the struggle of his chest to rise and fall with each forced breath. Miles finished up his chore and leaned back in the chair, preparing to wait for Billy’s return. “So, what’s new, old man?”

“Billy told me you two are dating,” wheezed Wernicke.

Miles chuckled. “Yeah, I suppose we are. You still have a problem with that?”

“No.”

“What made you change your mind? When he first met, you told me to stay away,” said Miles.

“I did,” said Wernicke.

“So what changed? I just grew on you? You didn’t want him to get close to me because…I’m a man? I’m older than him? I’m with the press? Wasn’t good enough for your precious grandson?”

“I said those things for your benefit, Mister Upshur, not Billy’s. If you ever became a threat to Billy, the Walrider would see you neutralized—as easily as a dog,” said Wernicke, the words making Miles’ skin break out in cold sweat. “No, I told you to stay away for your own good.”

“You don’t want anyone near him then? Because the swarm might turn them into human chum?”

“Billy is repulsed by most people. The swarm wants nothing to do with them. The fact that he was not repulsed by you told me all I needed to know. The Walrider sees something in you. I put it together that you must have had some trauma similar to what Billy endured—trauma which made him a good host. I believe, in some ways, the Walrider wanted to court you, in order to have another possible option. In many ways, you would be a better host.”

“How? Billy’s younger than me, he’s more fit, he’s already used to all the shit that comes from being the host…”

“True. But you are much better educated. You have world experience. You are manipulative…”

“I’m not manipulative,” protested Miles, frowning as he stared down at Wernicke in his chair. There were several moments with nothing to fill the silence but the sound of machinery. “Reporters have to be a little manipulative sometimes. I’m an investigator…”

“Mister Upshur, I am not here to judge you. I am merely telling you my observations on what the swarm prefers,” Wernicke said. “I think it allows you to stay near Billy because it wants you for its own.” Miles’ face went red though he attempted to hide the slip with some coughing and confused stares. “You should be wary of the Walrider, and therefore Billy.”

“It’s a little late, honestly,” Miles said, keeping his voice low.

“When Billy was young, I had to make sacrifices in Billy’s well being because of the swarm. He has what equates to around an eighth grade education, though he is an avid reader. He has never traveled out of this area. I do these things in order to keep the swarm contained. Are they what is best for Billy, as a person? No. But if the Walrider was discovered…I planted in him a fear. A fear of others, of being dissected, of going back into the Morphgenic Engine. I put fear there because it was the easiest way to control him. Though make no mistake, the fear was used as a tool—but it is very much a reality if he was discovered. It’s possible Murkoff has the technology to contain the swarm.” A strange buzzing noise interrupted the speech, but it quickly quieted on its own. “Now, if the Walrider were to find a host like you…I shudder to consider the possibilities.”

“It could control me easier or something?” asked Miles.

“You could use it more efficiently,” wheezed Wernicke. The conversation came to an end as Billy wandered back into the room. 

“All finished?” Billy asked, smiling at the scene of Miles and Wernicke chatting together, oblivious to the tense discussion he had interrupted. 

“Sure thing,” said Miles, standing up and nodding at Wernicke. “Good talking to you.” Billy led the way down the hallway and back into his small bedroom. He sat down on one of the beds which had been moved back into their proper positions. His face was tense. “Something on your mind?”

“I…I want to talk about us—our relationship. But…I just…I’m sorry, I really don’t know how relationships work outside of books,” Billy said, a faint blush decorating his cheeks. 

“Well, communication is important,” Miles said, sitting on the bed next to Billy and giving his arm a gentle squeeze. “It’s really good. We can talk about whatever you like. I’d much rather you ask and we discuss it than you waiting for me to read your mind…wait, bad wording, since you can read mine…you know what, just ask.”

Miles leaned back on the bed, kicking his legs up onto the mattress and grinning. Billy seemed to relax a little and laid out on the bed next to Miles on his stomach. “Well, I…really like everything we’ve done together, the…the sex I mean,” said Billy, nuzzling his face into Miles’ arm to hide the way it burned from embarrassment.

“I like it too, don’t worry,” said Miles, grinning at his flustered lover.

“Well, when I…that is, when we…the Walrider…sorry, this is embarrassing,” Billy said, his voice muffled as he spoke with his head still buried against Miles’ shoulder. “You enjoy it so much. I want to experience that.”

“And by _that_ , specifically, you mean…” Miles smirked to himself as he coaxed Billy into putting his dirty desires into words.

Billy lifted his head from Miles’ shoulder and looked down into his gray eyes. “I want to feel you inside,” Billy whispered, pausing to gnaw nervously at his lower lip. “I want you to take me.”

Miles growled at the wording, pulling Billy roughly. He maneuvered him until Billy was lying directly on top of him. Miles rocked his hips upwards, grinding. “Say it again.”

“Take me,” Billy said, his voice a breathy moan. Miles rolled his hips into Billy’s slowly but with extreme pressure, his arms wrapping around Billy to keep their bodies pressed tightly together. “Please…”

Miles slid his hands lower on Billy’s back until he was forcing his hand beneath his jeans. It was a tight fit but Miles managed to grope him over his boxers. He took a handful of ass cheek in each hand and squeezed firmly. “How can I deny you when you ask so sweetly? Do you have an idea of how you want to do it?” Miles’ fingers kneaded into the fleshy cheeks causing Billy’s breath to come in uneven, stuttering gasps.

“I don’t…what’s easiest?” Billy asked through his heavy breathing.

“Mmm, you don’t have to worry about that,” Miles murmured, bending forward to press his lips to Billy’s neck. “I’ll be gentle. Take my time. Memorize your reaction to that first contact,” Miles said, punctuating each sentence with another kiss to Billy’s warm flesh.

“I want it so bad,” Billy moaned, bucking his hips down against Miles beneath him. His erection was hard and straining in his jeans, grinding into Miles’ hip with bruising force.

“I’ll open you up nice and slow,” said Miles, dragging his teeth lightly across Billy’s throat, eliciting a soft whimper. He chuckled as he squeezed Billy’s ass and pulled his cheeks apart. Slowly, Miles inched his hands closer to the center of those mounds. “I’ll get you so loose and wet you’re on the edge before I’m even inside. And then…” Miles bit down harder on Billy as his fingers rubbed over his puckered hole through his boxers, “…then I’m going to fuck you deep and slow until the only word left in your vocabulary is my name.”

“Miles,” whimpered Billy. Miles moaned at the sound.

“Do you have anything in the house? Condoms? Lube?” Miles’ voice was rough next to Billy’s ear. 

“N-no,” Billy stuttered, writing on top of Miles and creating new friction between their bodies. Miles could not help but be reminded of his recent shameful display on top of Waylon. It was so much better when the person reciprocated. It was so much nicer to feel wanted. Miles relinquished his grip on Billy’s ass and pulled his hands out of his jeans. He took Billy’s face in his hands and sighed before kissing him.

“Tonight, then,” Miles said, feeling disappointed, but fighting to keep it out of his voice.

“Now,” Billy insisted, kissing Miles again and humping shamelessly against him.

Miles laughed, making it difficult for Billy to continue the kiss. He pouted down at Miles, frustration plain on his young face. “I don’t want to risk hurting you. Frankly, I’m a little worried of what your inner demon might do if you get injured at all.”

Billy chuckled, shaking his head and causing his wavy hair to fall into his eyes. “You don’t need to worry about it. Trust me. The Walrider wants this too.”

“Then I’ll be back tonight with everything I need to fuck you both until you’re satisfied. As long as it takes,” Miles growled. Billy kissed him, swallowing the sound. Miles closed his eyes and allowed his mind to shut down as he got lost in the taste and feel of Billy. He had grown much better at kissing, tongues caressing in intriguing swipes that had Miles opening and submitting to Billy mapping out his inside of his mouth. 

“Sorry,” Billy said after their lips separated. “I’m not usually…that is I haven’t really felt like this…it’s like, when you’re around, I can’t focus on anything.” He buried his face against Miles’ neck and sighed.

“That’s…probably normal for your first crush,” Miles said, keeping his tone light though he closed his eyes and smiled where Billy could not see. 

“Way more than a crush,” said Billy, heat tilting to kiss Miles’ scruffy cheek. “I like you. You’re kind, and passionate about your work, and so patient and understanding with all of my issues…”

Miles’ head knocked against the mattress as he stared up at the ceiling, frowning. “That’s what you think of me?”

“Yes,” said Billy, rubbing his nose against Miles’ scruff.

“You…wow,” a laugh escaped, “you have the absolute…wrong idea here,” said Miles, sighing as Billy nuzzled him. He was so warm, and comfortable. A relationship like he had not experienced since the first years with Chris. “Look, I’m not really that successful with this writing thing. I mostly do Internet crap advertising. The article that won an award was so long ago, I probably can’t even salvage my career. Even if this article is awe inspiring, I’m not sure anyone will ever publish it.” Billy had not moved from his position on top of Miles though he was not moving, listening carefully. “I don’t make friends easily. Case in point, I recently took advantage of my current best friend. I’m tired of feeling impotent and powerless and…fucking…worthless.” Miles closed his eyes. “I’m really tired of my life.”

“Then change it. Start something new,” said Billy, pushing up on his elbows to look down at Miles. “You’re not worthless, you’re just…you’re depressed. I dealt with it for years after the scientists. I would rather be _dead_ than ever have to endure that torture again. I still have to put in effort everyday to keep myself in good mental health--remembering the good things. You…you could probably benefit from something like that. Medication doesn’t work on me, but it might work for you.”

Miles’ eyes flew open and he gave a confused look at Billy still hovering above him. “Uh…”

“What?” Billy asked, blue eyes wide behind their thick frames.

“That…that was a surprisingly mature answer to that disgusting tirade…I was expecting some kind of…I can fix your problems if you stay with me bullshit…”

“The Walrider can’t really do much for mental health, or I would take it all away for you,” said Billy, leaning down to kiss Miles’ forehead. “You seem to think I’m just rushing into this like a fool or something—it doesn’t feel that way. I want to be there for you, not just good times, bad times, all times, publishing this thing might put you in danger. I can protect you. I can…”

Miles responded by wrapping his arms around Billy and pulling him impossibly tight against his chest. When he spoke, his words were muffled against Billy’s skin, “I don’t deserve you.”

Billy shook slightly as he chuckled at the sentiment. “Probably not. You’re too good of a guy to be punished with a monster like me.”

“Monster,” Miles said, grinning against Billy’s shoulder. “After last night, I’m thinking the other scientists had it right—you’re some kind of sex god.”

Billy laughed, pushing away from Miles’ embrace so he could catch his breath. He ended up plopping down on the makeshift bed next to Miles, staring at the ceiling. It took several seconds before he could respond. “It’s just something that happened to me. It’s a curse, but it’s a blessing. It’s miraculously good, and horrendously bad. In the wrong hands…in my hands when I was younger…”

“I’m changing my stance on that, by the way,” said Miles, turning only his head to look at Billy. “That wasn’t murder. That wasn’t you.”

“It was me,” said Billy, shaking his head slightly while staring up. “I wanted them to die.”

“I’m just really not sure that there isn’t some amount of sentience in there. The Walrider…I’ve seen it do things, when you’re asleep,” said Miles. “It wasn’t temporary insanity or anything else, it was a powerful being exercising its potential and discovering its limits for the first time.”

“What did it do?” Billy asked, sitting up and staring hard at Miles, pushing his glasses up on his bridge.

“What, in the laboratory? I don’t know how you guys kill things but it seems pretty damn efficient…”

“No, what did the Walrider do, that you saw, when I was asleep?” asked Billy. His face was turning pale and Miles could detect whispers of static in the room. Billy shook his head, as though discouraging a buzzing insect.

“Are you okay?”

“What…tell me,” demanded Billy, blue eyes turning dark. The buzzing grew louder.

“You promised not to hurt me,” Miles said, his voice shaking as he sat up and pulled away from Billy.

“I don’t want to hurt you…I’m just angry at it,” said Billy. He cocked his head as though listening to something out of Miles’ hearing. “Of course it would fuck you. It’s been fighting me everyday to overpower you since you showed up at the house. It fucked you, didn’t it? You let it, or it was forced?”

“Uh, actually, I,” Miles paused to take a deep breath, his heart hammering away in his chest. “I thought it was you. At first.” His entire body tensed, though he doubted he could outrun the Walrider if it came to that.

“By the end though, you knew?”

“No. I didn’t know. There was no talking. I had no idea what the fuck was happening. I didn’t fight it or anything,” said Miles. Billy sighed, shaking his head. “Shit, are you mad? I didn’t do it to upset you.”

“I’m not upset with you,” Billy said, his tone deceptively calm and cold. “I’m upset with it…me. I’ve been in control for so long, I thought this wasn’t a problem anymore.”

“The Walrider has sexually assaulted people before?” asked Miles.

“No,” snapped Billy, sounding offended.

“So you knew then, that it could do things on its own?”

“Sure. But it doesn’t do anything I don’t want. It’s…me, and I am it, and…”

“I’m fine with it,” said Miles, his body slowly relaxing as he became more certain Billy wasn’t going to turn him inside out. “It’s part of you…” Miles paused, staring at Billy for what seemed like an eternity before he continued, “…and you mean something to me. I like whatever this is.”

Billy’s face relaxed out of its scowl and he leaned in to kiss Miles softly on the lips. “That makes me so happy.”

“I’m going to go back to the hotel so I can get some work done. But I am coming back tonight. And you need to be ready for me.”

Miles felt lighter when he arrived back at the motel. Dealing with the moronic motel attendant about arranging a longer stay was less painful than usual. Opening up his work email made him feel productive rather than hopeless. Maybe Billy wasn’t the only partner soothed by the presence of the other. Miles looked forward to the evening.

He emailed a potential new client, glad to see they were still interested. It was bad enough to do these commercials for a living—Miles did not want to be the worst at his job. He was proud to have so many loyal customers. A few were making demands, and he was happy to fulfill their requests before getting his work in order. It was almost seven when he finally finished up with the last blog and closed his computer. Billy.

Miles finally allowed his thoughts to drift as he drove to the local drug store. His mind was filled with images of Billy. He was unstable, damaged, and a decade younger, but all Miles saw was a kindred spirit inhabiting the sexiest frame imaginable. He couldn’t wait to get Billy naked and spread in front of him. He had to wait behind some old man buying a dozen different varieties of lottery tickets before he could place his lube and condoms on the counter. The two teenage boys behind the counter exchanged a sideways glance and snickered to themselves.

Miles swiped his credit card and watched. One boy completed the transaction while the other tried to avoid laughing outright. Miles waited until he had his receipt and bag before smiling at the boys. “It’s not for what you’re thinking. It’s actually for gay sex.” The bulging eyes of the two boys was much too satisfying.

How long had it been since he had someone that made him feel weightless? His relationship with Waylon had been too complicated, but Billy was straightforward and interested. It felt so good to get what he wanted. He only had to realize what it was that he wanted, and now he knew. He wanted Billy. Miles started the Jeep and paused, leaning over the steering wheel as he smiled to himself. He could make it work. Billy could help him feel whole, and he could cherish and protect Billy in return.

A vibration in Miles’ pocket pulled him from his thoughts. He frowned when he did not recognize the number. He remembered that he was expecting a call from the potential new client. It would not be the first time someone had called him late in the evening.

“Upshur.”

“Yes, I am looking for Miles Upshur.”

“This is Miles,” he said, using his most professional voice.

“Do you know a Waylon Park?”

“Waylon? What is this in regards to?”

“You are listed as Mr. Waylon Park’s next of kin, emergency contact. There’s been an accident, and he is in the hospital.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back on schedule with these now that we are hammering out the final outline


	14. Complicated

The sound of someone opening the hospital room door caused Miles to bolt upright. The nurses were changing shifts and checking on patients. He smiled as the new nurse came in and introduced herself as Cheri. 

“That’s great, Cheri. Terrific. Listen, is there any change in his condition? Do the doctors know what kind of accident this was?”

“He says he fell down the stairs. It’s difficult to say, and he has been on painkillers since he arrived. Once he wakes up, they will want to do some more tests on him,” said Cheri. 

“Alright. Be seeing you soon then,” said Miles. He stretched and stood up, pacing as the nurse finished her routine and left the room. Alone again with Waylon.

He had driven straight from Leadville to the hospital in Denver, making it in two hours to find Waylon had been treated and admitted overnight. Waylon was asleep and on drugs when Miles arrived. He intended to stay near his friend all night, in case he woke, but sometime during the night he had fallen asleep in a chair, leaning forward on Waylon’s hospital bed. 

He stared at his friend’s one visible eye, the other being bandaged due to a fracture in one of the facial bones in the middle of the face. The bruising and swelling visible around the bandages are horrific. There was also a tan bandage on his ankle—the same leg that he had been favoring when Miles had rushed to Denver to help his friend. It pained him to see his normally happy face looking so pale and splotched with purple bruises. 

It was a strange sadness that his friend might finally be single, just as Miles had fallen for Billy Hope. Is this how Waylon for all those months? He had stuck with his new boyfriend while constantly wondering what would happen if he gave the other a chance? Would Waylon really consider dating him? And if he did, what then would happen with Billy? 

Time and again, while waiting for sleep, Miles thought of Billy. The pain in his voice when Miles had called and told him their evening was rescheduled. He did not regret being there for Waylon, but he had been extremely excited about his evening. It was made worse by the way Billy had teased him before they hung up their call. Reminding him of exactly what he was going to be missing. Forcing Miles to move the phone away from his mouth and groan loudly in frustration. 

Eddie Gluskin was the one behind this--Miles was positive. The nurse could only tell him that Waylon had been dropped off at the emergency room exit by a “friend.” Waylon had told the doctors, upon admission, that he had tripped and fallen down the stairs outside his apartment building. While it was true that Waylon was not the most coordinated man Miles knew, he seriously doubted that was the real cause of Waylon’s injuries.

Miles pulled the cheap curtains back slightly to look outside. The sun bathed Denver in the orange glow of first light. He could not help but remember the previous morning, waking up next to Billy. To think he would be waking up beside Waylon the very next day.

A soft rustling from the hospital bed caught his attention. Miles immediately dropped the curtain and returned to Waylon’s bedside. One eye managed to open, the lids sticking together, actively discouraging him from waking. When Waylon’s green eye finally managed to focus on Miles standing next to the bed, his swollen lips slowly spread in a small smile. 

“Miles,” breathed Waylon, trying, and failing, to sit up. Miles jumped to look at the controls and buttons until he found a way to recline the bed upwards. Once Waylon was sitting upright he yawned and attempted to stretch his limbs. “What are you doing here?” asked Waylon, his voice cracking from disuse. Miles automatically went to where the nurses had left a pitcher of water and some cups. 

“The hospital called me. Apparently, I am still your emergency contact, through your old insurance,” said Miles, filling up a Styrofoam cup and carrying it over to Waylon. “You look like shit, Park.”

“Your mom looks like shit,” Waylon replied in his hoarse voice. He took the cup in his hand, careful of the tubes and wires attached to his IV.

“Real mature,” said Miles, waiting as Waylon drank in anticipation of taking the cup back and placing it out of the way. “You wanna tell me what happened?”

“Tripped down the stairs in the apartment complex. You know how they are. Concrete. Easily slippery. It was a hell of a tumble…”

“And you went face first?”asked Miles.

“…yeah what are the odds right? Well, considering this is me we’re talking about, I guess they’re pretty good…” said Waylon.

“What did you do this time? Forgot his medication again? Burnt his favorite pie? Accidentally spilled something on his lap?”

“Do you remember when we met?” Waylon asked, grinning despite his injuries.

“Don’t change the subject. You need to get away from this brute. Your life could depend on it. Just look…”

“You were so drunk,” Waylon said, chuckling to himself though it turned into a cough due to how dry his throat had become. “Ugh, my throat.”

“Just drink more,” Miles said, offering the cup again. “Dry mouth is a common symptom of painkillers, they have you on the good stuff.”

“Great,” deadpanned Waylon, accepting the cup and taking another long drink of water. “I thought you were cute.”

“Drunk, sitting on the ledge, and you found that cute…”

“Mmmhmm. Very,” said Waylon, his one eye managed to look mischievous even with the bandage over his face. “You reeked. I think you got more of the last bottle on you than in you.”

“Just sounding more and more attractive. I get it, you have seen my worst, and what, now I am seeing your worst?”

“I didn’t think you were going to jump,” said Waylon.

“I wasn’t thinking at all…”

“I _did_ think you were going to fall. You were swaying really bad.”

“I’m lucky you found me,” said Miles. His voice was quiet and gray eyes gazing at his friend’s face. “You saved my life. I’m trying to return the favor.”

“It sure was easy to save your life,” said Waylon. “Just offered you some food and pulled you back to the other side of the safety rail.”

“You order your pad thai too spicy. It hurt even worse coming back up the next morning,” said Miles, causing Waylon to laugh weakly. “I know I puked all over your bathroom. You never mentioned it.”

“It was horrible,” Waylon said, snorting with laughter. “I just did not think ridiculing a suicidal guy was the best action. Especially when you woke up so hung over. I felt so sorry for you.”

“A relationship built on pity…” Miles said, rolling his eyes. “What a mess.”

“I still fell for you. You were such a loyal boyfriend to Chris. You moved across the country and started up some jobs just to keep yourself living here and fighting for him,” said Waylon, pausing to take another sip of his water. “I felt like such a bad person. I wanted you to give up, to move on, to consider…other options. And then that day when you were thrown out of the asylum, and the restraining order and you…kissed me.”

“I remember,” muttered Miles. Chris did not even recognize him anymore. All of his questions were leading nowhere. The frustration finally bubbled over in the form of Miles punching a security guard and earning a restraining order. Waylon had been there, waiting in the Jeep. He had started accompanying Miles on all of his trips, and Miles enjoyed having him there. As soon as security deposited him on the ground outside, Waylon was at his side, and Miles grabbed him and kissed him hard. “That was the day I gave up ever having a real life with Chris. He’s not a factor anymore.”

“Yeah, but that was also the day I decided I was in love with you. I’m not inexperienced or anything, but I would never make a,” Waylon paused, licked his lips and dropped his voice to a whisper, “…a sex tape…with just anyone.”

“I memorized every second of it. Did you watch it?”

“Eddie did.”

“But why would…” Miles felt the bottom drop out of his stomach as he absorbed what Waylon had said. Waylon stared at the hospital blankets with a tiny frown on his face. Miles re-examined every visible bruise, the places where the gauze bandages were discolored, and flesh colored bandage wrapping up his ankle. “Waylon, I’m so…”

“Stop. It was a stupid thing to do but...It’s not your fault. Eddie has anger issues, but he’s working on them. I should have checked my email sooner and then it wouldn’t have happened. He’s been having a rough time this month because of medication issues, but his doctor…”

“Leave him,” said Miles, pulling a chair up next to the bed so he could sit level with Waylon. He carefully took Waylon’s hand between his, mindful of the IV tubing. “Please, let this be the last time. I’m horrified, Park.” Miles squeezed Waylon’s hand gently, though it still made his friend wince slightly. “Please.”

Waylon gave a mirthless chuckle. “I’m lucky to have Eddie. No one else would put up with someone as…boring, and clumsy, and forgetful as me. I don’t have any real talents or something great to bring to a relationship. Eddie is funny, and charming, he has lots of friends, and he’s successful at his business and can support me so…”

“What the hell are you even talking about right now? Eddie is a goddamn asshole that hits you and breaks your bones,” said Miles, nostrils flaring as he struggled to contain his anger. 

“No, the break is a tiny fracture, I won’t even need a cast. And it wasn’t Eddie, well, not directly, apparently it was hurt the last time he left and slammed the door on it, but I made it worse by not staying off of it. It’s my fault…”

“Would you _please_ stop,” said Miles, scooting his chair even closer so he could bring his face closer to Waylon’s. “I don’t know what kind of shit Eddie is feeding you, but you are none of those things. You are the most selfless, thoughtful person I know. You’re hilarious when we go out, everyone from your work adores you, I keep all your drunk texts--they’re gold. You put yourself out there for your friends, way above and beyond. Shit, you drag strangers into your house and force feed them pad thai.”

Waylon stared where Miles held his hand, refusing to meet his eyes. He brought Waylon’s hand up to his lips slowly to avoid aggravating any injuries. Miles pushed his lips gently to freshly scraped knuckles. “You saved me back then. I owe you everything. And now you’re here and I can’t do anything to save you. Eddie’s not good for you. He’s not good for anyone. He’s a brute.” Waylon opened his mouth but Miles refused to give up the floor. “No, he is. You know it. You’re smart Waylon, I don’t know why you’re being so dense about this. Just let me help you.”

“Okay,” Waylon said quietly, still not looking up. 

“Yeah? Really? You’ll let me help you? We can keep you away from him. If he can’t get his act together, he’s got to go. You can’t keep going to the hospital or getting black eyes. Where is he anyways?”

“He dropped me off at the hospital. I think he’s done with me,” said Waylon, his voice cracking slightly.

“Good,” said Miles, squeezing his friend’s hand and drawing out a hiss. “Sorry. But good. You should move on from that asshole. You deserve someone better, someone who would really treasure you and everything you bring to a relationship. You’re the best friend a guy can have, and you’re really cute, and damn sexy. Fuck, you were my favorite pornstar these past months, and…” 

Miles was cut off from his rambling about all of Waylon’s high points when his friend’s tender lips met his own. Miles froze, not moving, afraid of hurting Waylon’s sore face but also afraid because…

“I’m dating someone,” said Miles as soon as Waylon pulled away. Visions of Billy naked in bed sprung to mind, as well as a twisting fear of what the Walrider might do if anything tried to come between Miles and Billy. “It’s complicated, and new, but I need…” Waylon kissed him again, more insisting, grunting when his sore face pressed into Miles’. 

Waylon took Miles’ face between his hands and kissed him, soft, gentle caresses of sore lips. The contact broke for just a moment as Waylon sniffed and then resumed feather light kisses along Miles’ lips. A tear tickled Miles’ skin as it fell down Waylon’s cheek. There was something so sad about the kiss, and Miles felt helpless to stop his friend without hurting him. If he could really, _finally_ be with Waylon, he could give him everything he deserved. But, Billy…

A knock on the door caused Waylon to pull away, sniffling and wiping his face as he turned to see the nurse.

“Hi, I’m Cheri, the nurse today. You’re awake, how are you feeling?”

Miles made himself sparse, hiding in the corner of the tiny hospital room. He glanced at Waylon, green eye ringed with red in addition to the dusky bruising. Why did they always have the absolute worst timing? He had wanted Waylon for so long. It felt like his brain and heart were at complete odds with what to say and do. He had to tell Waylon about Billy and his growing feelings. He needed to be open. They needed better communication—no more missed connections.

The nurse was finishing up with a blood pressure reading, and Miles inched closer to the bed. He wasn’t sure exactly what to do yet. He wanted to kiss Waylon again. 

“Alright, we’re just going to borrow him for a moment to get another x-ray, and some blood draws, before the doctor comes back up,” said Cheri. She had to assist Waylon into a wheelchair. He seemed weak and pained, but he made it into the seat. Cheri had to do something with the IV to disconnect Waylon without removing the needle from his hand. “Okay, we’ll be back shortly.” 

The nurse’s perky attitude seemed vastly out of place considering the atmosphere in the room. Green eyes stared into gray from across the room and Miles thought about asking for another minute alone. Everything they had left unsaid for too long was suddenly too much of a burden to shoulder for even another second.

“I’ll be here, Park,” said Miles, giving a half smile that made Waylon smile in return. “Good luck on your tests.”

“I studied all night,” said Waylon, grinning. It felt good to make light of the heavy situation. Miles stared as his friend was wheeled out of the room.

He picked up his phone and dialed Billy’s number. He pulled back the curtain and stared at the morning light, frowning impatiently as he listened to the ringing. 

“Hello?” came a voice thick with sleep.

“Hey kid,” said Miles, listening carefully to the quick shuffling on the other side of the phone. He could only imagine Billy sitting up in bed immediately alert at the sound of his voice.

“Miles,” said Billy, his voice alone making Miles feel warm. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah. Nothing life threatening. He was asleep when I got here so I worried all night, but he’s up and getting more x-rays or something. Uh, basically an ankle thing and a fracture in his face but it’s in the middle so apparently it’s just swelling and soreness, no surgery needed. They hope. I guess the x-rays will tell.”

“That just sounds awful,” said Billy, his tone falling just short from sounding like sincere concern. 

“I’m calling because I miss you,” said Miles. “I don’t know what’s going on yet. If he gets released today, I might need to help him at his home for a while, and then…”

“You should bring him here. I could help you watch him. I’m already up at all hours of the night…” said Billy, words picking up speed as he thought up the plan.

“That’s sweet that you’d consider it. It’s really up to him though. I’ll offer,” said Miles.

“Okay…” said Billy, sounding dejected.

“I know this is bad timing, and there’s history, and everything, but if you were here I would…” Miles’ words trailed off as he stared in wide-eyed horror, “…I gotta call you back.” Miles ended the call and stood waiting inside the room watching through the open door as Eddie Gluskin checked in at the nurse’s station carrying a bouquet of flowers and dressed up for some formal affair.

Miles clenched his fists as he waited just out of sight inside of the room. He waited until Eddie was fully in the hospital room before stepping forward.

“What the fuck are you doing here,” growled Miles, glaring up at Eddie. His vivid blue eyes quickly honed in on Miles and he squared his shoulders. 

“Are you really this obtuse? Waylon had told you, time and time again, that he’s not interested in anything with you. He needs me, and I need him,” said Eddie, holding the flowers up to his chest and putting on a sincere face the way others might put on a hat. It was something he could put on and take off at will. “Please, consider your friend’s happiness, and stop this sad display of misguided affection…”

Miles’ fist connected with Eddie’s jaw. Too late Eddie seemed to anticipate the movement and moved to block the blow, but Miles managed to connect his knuckles to Eddie’s square jaw with a sick thud. Miles hissed in pain staring at his hand and shaking out his fingers. “Fuck, what is your face made out of…” he said, wincing. He glanced up and saw the murderous glare on Eddie’s face a moment too late. “Uh oh-- _oof_!” 

The last part turned into a loud exhale as Eddie’s fist connected with Miles’ stomach, repeatedly. He attempted to push away from the larger man but it was like shoving a brick wall—Eddie wouldn’t budge. Finally, Eddie released Miles and he stumbled backwards into a tray of medical equipment that was sitting on the edge of the counter, sending a shower of miscellaneous medical paraphernalia flying. He caught hold of an unused IV stand in an effort to keep himself up, but it gave out under his weight sending them both crashing to the ground.

Miles struggled to regain his breath, groaning at the soreness in his ribs and abdominals. “What the fuck is your problem, Gluskin?!”

“You hit me first, darling,” said Eddie.

“Don’t you dare fucking call me that,” howled Miles as he jumped up and charged Eddie. He was easily deflected and barely caught himself before he face-planted into the wall. He turned to glare defiantly at Eddie but met a strong backhand instead, which caused fuzzy black spots to swim over his vision for a moment. He put his hands on his knees and doubled over, panting for air. He made a huge show of looking defeated, before grabbing the fallen IV stand and swinging it at Eddie like some kind of club. 

The metal stand struck Eddie across the chest and sent him stumbling into a security officer. Miles could see a crowd around the nurse’s station. Their altercation had been rather loud. Miles stood breathing heavily and glaring at Eddie as he regained his balance.

“I need you both to stop this right now, and come with me, do you hear me?” asked the security guard. 

“Of course,” said Eddie, “I apologize. My friend and I were just…”

Miles socked Eddie in the face again, cutting his sentence short. Miles already sore fist cracked against the fleshy part of Eddie’s cheek. He turned a shocked expression on Miles before glaring again.

“That’s it you little shit…”

Miles yelped as Eddie launched at him and quickly maneuvered him into an unprofessional type of headlock. Impossibly tight arm muscles constricted around Miles’ body. He tried punching at Eddie’s body, kicking at his legs, and finally prying the arms away as his own lungs demanded air. The arms finally unlocked and Miles sucked down huge breaths of air. He looked up, unsteady on his feet, and watched Eddie get handcuffed and pulled out of the room by two officers. He stopped fighting, holding up his hands in surrender.

“That’s right, ASSHOLE,” screamed Miles the second before his own wrist was grabbed and he felt the cold pinch of handcuffs. “Ah wait, what? He started it!”

“That’s not what the nurses said,” said the security officer, a young man probably fresh out of training. Miles knew it was pointless to fight and would only get him in even deeper trouble. He had no choice but to follow the men downstairs. He took one last look inside Waylon’s room and saw the flowers, torn and littering the floor along with medical supplies. He followed the officers, feeling ashamed and angry at himself.

Eddie wanted nothing to do with the police. He refused to file any charges against Miles and called his friends who quickly bailed him out. There was a five hour holding period set up for Miles. His bail was set, but he had no friends to bail him out, and didn’t feel like getting involved with a bond company for such a short sentence. He prepared for a long, sad wait in the county jail with the other minor offenders. He had never made it past the initial holding cell in the past, and was morbidly curious about what an overnight stay in county jail would be like. He was staring at the wall, counting the cinder blocks, when one of the guards called his name.

Miles stood up, and walked to the bars, keeping his head down and mustering his best manners. “Yes, Officer, that’s me.”

“Made bail,” said the officer, preparing to open the cell. Miles smiled in relief before his face slowly turned into a mask of confusion. 

“Wait. Who?”

It was almost an hour before Miles had his belongings back and was completely signed and allowed to walk out of the county jail. He wondered if Waylon had managed to come through, despite his injuries? Maybe Eddie, in some strange way, wanted to make it right? He did not have to wonder for long.

“Mr. Upshur,” came a voice in the parking lot. A shiny black Mercedes with dark tinted glass had one window rolled down, revealing the face of none other than…

“Jer! Fancy meeting you here,” said Miles, walking casually over to the car. “What did they get you for? No wait, let me guess…soliciting a sex worker? Public urination? You got within one hundred and fifty feet of a school…”

“Clever, as always, Mr. Upshur. No, I thought it would be a nice way to thank you for all you’ve done for me and the company,” said Jeremy.

“Oh, you’re welcome. I’m working on an even worse piece that’s really going to get you guys some publicity. You should be excited,” said Miles.

“Yes, you mentioned. Which was why we decided to take a closer look at what exactly you were blathering on about,” said Jeremy, giving a humorless chuckle. “Yes, this was really the least we could do considering it’s thanks to you that Billy Hope has finally come home—where he belongs.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate transparency from authors, so I try to be open about what's going on for you guys reading along. It's coming up on the dramatic ending here, I am doing a lot of re-writes, and I hate everything I'm writing. Painty is helping me tons to get through this patch. And as mentioned, this is a 20 chapter fic, so the end is in sight. I'm not delaying intentionally, and won't be following any schedule to withhold I'll just publish as soon as it's done. The plot is kinda tearing me out of my comfort zone, which is good to help me grow, but it's nerve wracking for me arrrgh. I'll get through this I promise lol Expect this one to finish before any of my other WIPs


	15. Time is Money

The road was a blur as the Jeep tore down the highway. Bushes, trees, buildings, fences—everything melded into one smear across Miles’ peripheral vision. The only thing that remained constant was the ominous form of Mount Massive, looming in the distance, growing closer so slowly it was almost undetectable. He had to get there.

Miles dialed Billy’s number again, and again. No answering machine or voicemail ever picked up. There was no end to the ringing. No answer on the other end. The continuous noise was eerie and unnerving. He considered driving to Billy's house to check on Wernicke first, but that would only waste more time. He eventually gave up on calling and instead dedicated himself to getting to Mount Massive as soon as possible.

A route so familiar he had driven it many times in his dreams—and nightmares. A drive that once meant he was one step closer to visiting the man he loved. A few hours closer to finding out how much further his boyfriend's health had declined since their last meeting. Each trek out to the mountain brought a new fear as he slowly watched his lover deteriorate into someone new and disturbing. Miles had to watch the first man he ever loved fade away. It had been over a year since Miles had made the familiar drive, but he sped toward the asylum this time with a new purpose—to save Billy.

His cell phone rang in his pocket and Miles managed to pick it up and accept the call without taking his eyes off of the road.

“Upshur.”

“Miles, what the HELL,” said Waylon through the phone. “I’m getting out of the hospital right now and they said you were in county jail. I called the jail and they said some guy in a black suit paid your bail. What the hell is going on? Where are you?”

“I’m in the car, driving to Mount Massive,” said Miles. The statement was followed by a frustrated scream on the other end of the phone that made him wince.

“For fuck’s sake, Miles. You show up here, you attack my boyfriend, and then you run away back to see your ex?! Weren’t you just claiming yesterday that you were completely over him, that he wasn’t a factor anymore?”

Miles scoffed out loud into the phone clutched by his face, casting a disgusted look at the gadget as though it had personally said the words. “Even though I’ve moved on, Chris is a part of who I am. He was the first man who ever loved me. The first man who made me feel safe and content. We lived together for years. I watched him falling apart and I did everything I could…”

“I wasn’t trying to say it as though you didn’t care about him…” said Waylon.

“I do care about him. I still do,” interrupted Miles. “I will probably always love him. Moving on isn’t the same thing as forgetting. Even the parts that I want to forget will stick with me. I tried, Park…”

“I know you did, I wasn’t saying--”

“I tried so hard to be there for him,” said Miles. ‘I kept him away from his family who wanted to throw him in an institute. I went to every appointment. I filled every prescription. I watched over him constantly. It wasn’t enough.”

“What happened to him wasn’t your fault…”

“Whatever. You’re pissed that I couldn’t get over it fast enough to be with you. I’m pissed about it too. But you can’t walk into your home and find the sink full of blood splatters and smears across the mirror, and then just wash it from your mind. I can’t forget following a trail of blood to find my boyfriend peeling the skin off of his forehead. I can’t un-know what it sounds like to hear someone breathing out of the bloody slits in his face where his nostrils used to be after he’d hacked off his own nose with a straight razor.”

“Jesus, Miles, okay, I know it was horrible, but he’s in custody under his parents’ wishes, there’s nothing you can do. It’s not worth driving yourself insane just to get in there to see him,” said Waylon.

“It’s different this time. I have to go to Mount Massive,” said Miles.

“There’s a restraining order against you from going to that place! Are you insane?! You always do this. One thing goes bad, and you just go nuclear, destroying everything until you're right back up on a ledge somewhere. What if I’m not there to drag you back this time?”

“Calm down, Park. I’m not on some suicide mission. Jeremy Blaire. That’s who bailed me out. They have Billy.”

“Who has…wha?”

“Billy Hope, the guy I was staying with in Leadville, the one that I am…my new boyfriend…he’s at Mount Massive. Jer was bailing me out just to rub it in my face. I’m on my way to get him back. They have no idea what they’re messing with.”

“They do have an idea, Miles. They’ve beaten you a dozen times in the past. Restraining order? Remember?”

“No, not me. Billy. If I can get to him, I know we can get him out of there,” said Miles.

“Okay, ignoring that weird statement, how the fuck do you even think that can happen? They will arrest you on sight. Come back to Denver. We can go together. Maybe I will have better luck! I could claim to be a relative or something.”

“You’d do that for me?”

“There’s very little I wouldn’t do for you Miles.” Seconds passed where the hum of the engine and the rush of the wind were the only sounds. “I love you.”

“Mutual. I’m still going to Mount Massive. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

_Beep._

The mountain was closer after he hung up. Soon he was winding up recognizable pathways and passing familiar landmarks until he pulled up to the security checkpoint required to enter the asylum.

“Name,” asked the bored, middle-aged security guard.

“Ferguson,” said Miles, glaring a challenge at the guard. The man lifted his cap, revealing a balding head, as he looked over a list with pursed lips. He ran his finger over the paper and stopped near the bottom of the page.

“Ah. Mr. Miles Upshur, most likely claiming to be one Turd Ferguson. They’re expecting you,” said the guard. Moments later he hit a button that raised the guard rail. “Enjoy your stay.”

Miles parked his red Jeep and jumped out of the car. He stalked toward the entrance with his head down before pushing open both of the double doors and storming into the main entryway. A large horseshoe shaped desk dominated the main area in front of the elevator. A few employees in the work area directly connected to the main office stopped to glance at the new arrival. Miles had not even gotten to the secretary's desk when security guards began to approach.

“Excuse me, sir, we're going to have to ask you--”

“Jeremy Blaire. Where the fuck is he? He told me, personally, to come here. He has something of mine that I intend to take back,” Miles said, keeping his fists clenched at his sides.

“Yes, Mr. Blaire gave clear instructions that you were to be taken back immediately,” said one of the uniformed officers.

“Okay then,” Miles said, jerking his arm when he felt someone taking his elbow, “What the hell?”

“I'm sorry Mr. Upshur but it's standard protocol to have an escort, and Mr. Blaire indicated you were a considerable risk. Apparently, you have a restraining order against coming to Mount Massive. We were instructed _not_ to call the police—unless you make it necessary.”

“Fine,” muttered Miles. “Take me straight to Blaire.”

Miles had visited many times to see Chris and he was intimately familiar with the visiting areas. The decor was modest and modern, with a real focus on everything being clean, the scent of bleach never far. There was little in the way of decoration apart from some paintings you might see in a cheap hotel and a few dying potted plants. Miles followed the security guard as he led through several familiar corridors until they came to an elevator.

Not wanting to let on that he was out of his comfort area, Miles kept his stance relaxed as they waited in the elevator. The hum of the motors pulling them up one floor, two floors—or was it more? It was unclear when the chime _dinged_ and the doors opened. Miles followed the guard out of the elevator and down an unfamiliar hallway.

It was immediately apparent that this area of the asylum had not been updated as well as some others. Miles knew that the building had originated from the sixties, but all of the visiting areas and the main office were so modern it rarely occurred to him that there may be areas of the asylum that still resembled an outdated health care facility from the Dark Ages. As he followed the guard, the walls became more battered and the floors were aged tile instead of new carpet. There were visible vents and cobwebs in the corner. Miles became concerned about whether this was even an active area of Mount Massive. He filed his concerns away as he followed through a maze of dilapidated corridors until the guard pushed a yellowing door and held it open for Miles.

Miles walked into the room slowly, taking in the dingy tiled walls, the dirty shop sink, and the stark lack of furniture. A stained examination table dominated the middle of the room, and an antique wheelchair was seated off to the side. “The doctor has been alerted that you are here and will be in any moment. Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Upshur?”

“Where’s Billy?” asked Miles, glaring at the security guard. There was no recognition in the man’s eyes.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know anything about patients. I only know I was instructed to bring you to this examination room. Doctor Trager, the head doctor of the asylum, is going to meet with you.”

“Perfect,” said Miles, fingers forming a steeple in front of him as he leveled a glare at the flunky guard. The name sounded familiar and he wracked his brain for where he may have heard it before. Was it listed on some of the files he had observed from Wernicke’s boxes?

“Feel free to have a seat, the doctor will be in shortly,” said the guard, gesturing toward the aged wheelchair before exiting through the door, shutting it softly behind him.

Miles stared around the room, unimpressed with the old equipment. Why had Blaire insisted that he be brought to this room? It made sense to bring him to a lesser used portion of the hospital if he wished to discuss things where the public could not hear. Miles assumed Billy’s residency was top secret. He snooped around, looking inside of the cabinets and finding nothing but dust and cobwebs. He tried opening a few drawers but found nothing but dirty rags, stained the same color as old rust. Was that blood? Miles was unsure as he closed them and paced the dirty tile floor.

After several minutes alone in the dirty room, the main door opened and a man that Miles had never seen entered the room. He was as tall as Miles but much older, with long gray hair dangling to his shoulders. He wore a strange headpiece that had a magnifying glass over his left eye, causing it to look unnaturally large through the convex lens of the glasses.

“Where's Jeremy?” Miles demanded, glaring.

“Hey buddy, nice to meet you. I need you to just, calm down,” said Dr. Trager, walking casually into the room. “Jer knows you're here. He's a busy man, hard to get a hold of considering all of these new discoveries. Old Rick's gonna make sure you get the answers to all of your questions, in due time.”

“Then tell me where Billy is—I came here for him,” said Miles.

“Weeeell, sorry. I’m just here for the initial examination,” said Rick. He was wearing business clothes under a doctor’s coat and a butcher’s apron around his waist. Miles had no idea what that meant. Rick dug around in the pockets of the doctor’s coat until he found a tiny flip pad and a pen. “Okay, I just have a few questions for you.”

“I have a question for you first. Chris Walker. You know him?” asked Miles.

“Okay let me see here, are you experiencing any fevers? Shakes?” asked Trager.

“What?” asked Miles, standing in front of the wheelchair and staring across the stained examination table. “No, I’m completely healthy. Now where’s Jeremy?”

“Have you experienced any visions?” asked Trager.

“Visions? Is this a fucking joke?” asked Miles.

“Visions like, have you seen any smoke creatures? Ghosts? Phantoms? Wraiths? Monsters?” asked Trager as though he were listing off the points on a checklist.

“No,” said Miles through clenched teeth.

“Any premature ejaculation?” asked Rick. Miles was still spluttering to find an answer when Trager continued. “Oh, touchy subject. Sorry about that buddy. Juuuust doing my job.” Nothing was going the way Miles had anticipated. He started to stand up from the wheelchair to face off against the strange doctor when the door to the examination room opened and in walked Jeremy Blaire, in all of his black suited glory.

“Mr. Upshur. Always a pleasure. How’s it going, Rick?”

“We were just discussing Mr. Upshur’s problems with lasting in the bedroom,” said Trager.

“I wish I could say that was surprising,” said Jeremy. Miles attempted to interject into the conversation but Rick and Jeremy were staring only at one another and talking as though they were over drinks at a corporate function rather than in a filthy examination room of a dilapidated asylum. “We’re going to need to make room, how do you feel about getting some surgeries underway today?”

“I’m sure I could free up my schedule. It’s about time we started trimming the fat on this project as it were. I’m sure if I put my mind to it, we could cut the population by ten, maybe twenty percent just by the end of the week. Just need to stick with this schedule. And I gotta tell you, I am enjoying my work.”

Jeremy laughed and clapped Rick on the shoulder. “If you’re able to make those numbers, we’ll have to go out, my treat, and we’ll make the martinis as dirty as you like them….”

“Hello? What the actual fuck?” Miles stared incredulously between the two different men in utter confusion. “Where’s Billy? If you’ve hurt him...”

“Ah, sorry about that Mr. Upshur. You know how we get when we talk shop,” said Jeremy giving a knowing grin over to Trager. Jeremy socked Miles in his already sore nose. The unexpected move knocked him backwards into the wheelchair that squeaked under his weight.

“Dammit,” said Miles, fumbling to bring one hand on his bleeding nose and the other grasping around to try to steady himself on the old contraption. He barely registered that his arm had been restrained before the other was forcibly pulled away from his face and belted into place on the other side. Miles pulled at both of his arms but found the restraints formidable. “What the hell is going on? You can’t do this to me. My friends know I’m here.”

“Nice try, you don’t have any friends,” said Jeremy, leaning bored against the dirty examination table in the room. Trager wiggled his long, gnarled fingers in front of Miles and he noticed the doctor’s long, unkempt fingernails for the first time. He recoiled in horror as the doctor began to pat him down, first his jacket pockets, followed by a pat down of his body through his thin shirt, and finally groping along his thighs.

“Get off of me, you fucking pervert,” hissed Miles.

“Quite a specimen,” said Rick earning a snicker from Jeremy. Hands continued to squeeze and feel along his pants pockets. “Ah,” Trager said as he managed to wedge his hands beneath Miles’ ass and dig into his back pockets. He pulled out Miles’ phone and moved his strange headpiece into place as he examined the gadget. “Nice phone, buddy. One of these new models. Touch ID--ooh, fancy.”

“Take it, I can get another,” said Miles, glaring defiantly.

Trager handed the phone over to Jeremy who swiped his finger and frowned. “I don’t suppose you’d like to tell us your code, Mr. Upshur?” asked Jeremy. He began typing in a few numbers and frowned at each outcome before finally giving a _hmph_ and handing the phone back to Trager.

“You’re that concerned about who I’m sexting? For the last time, I am not sending you a dick pic, Jer,” said Miles. The two men laughed at his joke, which only made him more angry.

“Whoo, you said he was funny,” said Trager, grinning at Jeremy.

“Not as funny as he thinks he is, but entertaining none the less,” said Jeremy, walking until he was staring directly down at Miles.

“Fuck you,” spat Miles. Jeremy was undeterred. He pursed his lips and squinted his eyes as though deep in thought.

“Don’t worry,” said Trager with a warm chuckle. He opened up one of the bottom cabinets and pulled out what resembled a rusty butcher’s knife. “I have ways of getting this guy to talk.”

“Oh don’t waste your time, Rick,” said Jeremy with a shake of his head. “I.T. can have this cracked within the hour I’m sure.”

Trager paused in the act of pulling out a huge pair of bone cutters from the same drawer and frowned at Jeremy. “You’re no fun anymore Jer. Time is money. And I have a much quicker solution.” Trager held the bone cutters in his hand and snipped them a couple times, as though testing their sharpness. Trager gave a shrug and approached Miles’ left side. He pulled back Miles’ left ring finger as far as it would go and Miles gave a sharp cry that soon turned into a shocking scream when the bone cutters removed the digit below the first knuckle.

“Fuck,” howled Miles, his body breaking out in sweat. He had been prepared for outrageous threats and intimidation--not outright torture. The room was spinning. He was going to be sick. He stared down at his hand, blood pushing out in a stream from where his ring finger had been. Miles sobbed at the sight, sure he was going to pass out.

“Ah jeez,” said Trager, though it sounded to Miles as though he were speaking underwater. “I guess he did not program in all of his fingers. Everyone does the pointer.”

Before Miles could make sense of the strange, garbled words, his right index finger was similarly pulled back and then cut roughly. He screamed and thrashed about against his restraints.

“Aha, there we go. Ooh, nice wallpaper, who’s the blond?”asked Trager, holding Miles’ amputated ring finger that he had used on the finger recognition of Miles’ phone to unlock it. “Told ‘ya.”

“Yeah, yeah, very efficient of you. Thanks for your assistance,” said Jeremy begrudgingly. Miles vomited noisily over his lap. He had not eaten much in the past twenty four hours, but he soaked himself with bile. His entire body was shaking in the chair and he felt like he must be going into shock. The floor seemed to rock as though he had been teleported to the deck of a ship in the midst of a storm. A rough slap to his face snapped Miles back to reality in an explosion of pain that had him biting his tongue and crying out again.

“Stay with me, buddy. Don’t want you to miss the best part,” said Trager, walking behind the wheelchair and starting to push Miles toward the door.

“Monsters, fucking abuse... _help_ , someone,” Miles shouted as Jeremy opened the door and held it open while Trager pushed the wheelchair out into the dim hallway. Miles glanced back and forth between his mangled hands, still restrained on the wheelchair’s arms. His left ring finger was only a tiny stub, and he could see bloody bone shards extending from the remains of his right pointer.

“Hey there,” Trager said, flagging down a waiting orderly in light green scrubs. “You can take our friend down to the temporary holding cell. I doubt he’ll be staying long.” The orderly nodded and took Trager’s place behind the chair, pushing Miles down toward an even darker hallway.

"Where's Billy? Why are you doing this?" Miles tried to crane his neck around to see the doctor.

“Good luck!” called Trager as Miles was pushed away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look, my first time writing about the actual setting of the game! Things are going to get Outlasty.


	16. Stain

Each dirt covered hallway seemed darker than the last. There was no conversation from the orderly as Miles was pushed through hallways and into an elevator to arrive in a large room filled with cells. Miles tried to stay conscious and make notes about his surroundings so he could escape if he got the chance, but the pain from his hands was distracting and every time he caught a glimpse of his bone protruding from his bleeding skin he felt cold panic grip his lungs. They finally came to a halt in a large area, open for two stories in the middle, completely surrounded with cell doors.

The orderly had to talk to a guard who produced a key and allowed him into a room that had white padding on all of the walls and little by way of furniture. Miles was struggling to ask the guard and orderly where he was and what was happening, but any time he tried to speak he felt sure he was about to get sick again, even gagging violently a couple of times. He was dumped out of the chair onto the ground without a thought. Miles managed to pull himself up into a sitting position on the ground with his back against the padded wall. It was quiet in the room. Too quiet. The padding was likely designed to act as a sound barrier against unruly patients.

Miles groaned as he stared at his fingers. The room, despite being white, seemed terribly grimy and unsanitary. Miles stared at the door’s one tiny window. He wanted to look out, but the effort required to pull himself to his feet seemed out of his reach at that moment. He looked for something to bind his bleeding hands, but the bed was a plastic mattress with no other coverings. “Fuck,” screamed Miles in futility. He jumped so hard he almost fell over when his outburst was met with a scared whine and strange scuttling sounds.

Miles fought to calm his breathing. He felt sure he would hyperventilate after the terrible scare. He slowly leaned his body until he could look under the bed and see all the way to the wall. He flinched again when he saw there was someone else in the room with him.

“Shit,” said Miles, the quick tensing from the scares causing his phantom fingers to throb as his body strained broken tendons. “Sorry, I didn’t see you there,” said Miles. He made no other moves and the figure under the bed scurried as though attempting to form their body into an even tighter ball. “I’m a good guy. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“They’re in my blood,” came a muffled response from the man under the bed. Miles made no movement and remained silent unsure how to answer. “They’re in my blood, and they wanna get out…”

“Okay, what’s in your blood?” Asked Miles.

“You’ve got to help me,” said the patient, whining loudly and scrambling once again to push his body even further under the bed. There was nowhere else for him to hide.

After a while, the whimpering and whispering became background noise as Miles sat with his head against the wall. He kept his knees up, trying to elevate his hands to stop the bleeding. He tried desperately to consider what had happened to Billy. Where were they keeping him? Was he close by? Miles was glad he had talked to Waylon on the drive down. Waylon knew he was going to Mount Massive. Surely he would alert the authorities if his friend disappeared. Someone would come for him. But how long? And what was happening to Billy while Miles was imprisoned.

The wait became difficult. Miles felt bone weary, but the cell remained brightly lit. Blinding white seared behind his eyelids when he closed them. He was so tired that he must have finally dozed because he woke up to the sound of the door being opened. A security officer and an orderly walked into the cell.

“Bout fucking time,” said Miles, but the orderly merely shoved past him, almost knocking him onto his side. “Hey! What about me? Where’s Billy?”

The orderly ignored Miles and instead reached under the bed and fought against Miles’ roommate. “Come on now. It’s time for your therapy.”

“No no no nonononono,” the other man chanted. Miles finally got a clear view of his roommate. He was a man with a shaved head wearing only loose fitting pants. His body was so emaciated that every bone and tendon was visible. His mouth was missing several teeth as he gnashed and begged and pulled against the orderly with a strength no one that malnourished should possess. After the fighting patient was removed, another was shoved into the room before the door was shut and locked.

Miles pushed away from the newcomer. The man was hunched over and from behind half of his head seemed to be comprised of a giant tumorous growth that flared pink and angry from his skull. When he turned around, Miles saw that the growth continued across half of his face, lifting up his mouth into a lipless sneer. The one remaining eye stared lidless and twitching.

“Hey. You’re not like the others. You’re like me, right? You still know what’s real?”

“Yeah,” said Miles, struggling to get upright and wincing as his bone made contact with the dirty wall. He saw that he had left a bloody hand print behind. “Miles Upshur. I’d shake your hand but…” The patient stared down at Miles’ hand and then extended his own which Miles noticed for the first time. It ended in a growth that had morphed his right hand into a disfigured club. “Ah, right, okay, never mind.”

“Gil,” said the patient, giving a nod of his misshapen head.

“Hey Gil. Any idea where we are right now?” asked Miles.

“This is the holding cells. Where they put the non-violents. We stay here when we’re not attending therapy or talking with the doctors,” said Gil.

“So that’s it, therapy, doctors, and the cell? What about like, group areas, showers, recreation, time in the yard…”

“Oh no. There is only the therapy where we are strapped into the Engine and made to watch projections for hours on end.”

“That sounds horrifying…”

“Indeed,” said Gil, though it was difficult to determine any emotions considering he had one twitching eye and not much by way of facial muscles left. “What happened to your face?”

“What happened to yours?” Gil retorted, before laughing awkwardly. “Yeah. Once you’ve had enough therapy, you graduate to the Engine. It’s not pleasant. I never want to do it again. But the good news is, I probably won’t have to. The growths mean my body rejected the injections and they turned to cancerous growths.”

“You’re right, that is good news…”

“It’s much better than being put into the Engine again,” said Gil.

“Yeah but if those are cancerous growths, you could die,” said Miles.

“It’s much better than being put into the Engine again,” Gil repeated.

There was a silence that stretched and Gil made his way into the tiny cell. “You mind if I use this bed?”

“Go nuts,” said Miles, returning to his spot on the floor and grunting as he put pressure on his mutilated fingers.

“How long have you been in here?” asked Miles as Gil laid down on the pitiful bed.

“Oh, hard to say. A little while though,” said Gil. “You?”

“I just got here. Do you know anyone named Chris Walker?” asked Miles.

“W..Walker? Chris Walker? Yeah. I know him, everyone knows him,” said Gil, craning his neck up to stare at Miles. “Why would you ask about Walker?”

“I know him. Well, knew him before he came here. Is he…do you think he’s having the same therapy as you?” asked Miles.

“Walker is way beyond what I was able to withstand. He’s been in the Engine several times from what I understand. But it’s growing more and more difficult to get him to cooperate. He tends to rip your head off if you don’t do things exactly his way,” said Gil.

Miles chuckled. “Yeah, he’s military, you know? He always wants stuff his way. He had a temper even when we dated. Though he was always very kind to me.”

“I think you may have misunderstood. He literally rips your head off.”

Miles looked at Gil out of the corner of his eye. Perhaps he was not as sane as he seemed if he thought a man could perform such a feat. “Yeah, well, the Chris I knew was not like that.”

“You were friends?”

“Lovers. Partners,” said Miles staring at the white padded ground. “He was big into physical activity. Never met a sport he didn’t dominate. Complete opposite of me. Forced me into a kickball league of all things…but he made it fun. He made everything fun. Those years we were together were just, filled with, travel and fun, and sports, and laughing, and…”

“You’re sure this is the same Chris Walker? It is a common name…”

Miles chuckled. It was normal that Chris’ military buddies would laugh when Miles described the way Chris behaved off base. He was intimidating and huge, but when they were alone together he was an attentive and caring boyfriend. “I miss him so much. Do you ever see him? You think I might see him while I’m here?”

“You should hope not,” said Gil.

Miles wanted to initiate more conversation but the door opened again. A security guard entered and walked straight for Miles. He grabbed Miles mangled hand and squeezed, causing Miles to howl with new pain. The guard used the pain to maneuver him until his face was against the padded wall. He held Miles there while tight restraints, more like shackles than handcuffs, were put on his wrists, keeping his hands behind his back. Miles had little choice but to follow the orderly as he was led out of the large open area and down another maze of hallways.

“Are you taking me to Billy?” No answer. “Are we anywhere near Chris Walker’s cell?” Still nothing. “Jeremy Blaire is a pencil dick and whatever he’s paying you is not worth what is going on here, man, open your eyes!” His pleas fell on deaf ears.

Miles thought he recognize a faded picture, but when he saw the same picture hanging in a completely different hallway he gave up. Murkoff knew their business, and they were the best at what they did. Miles thought that, if they weren’t in the business of human misery, Murkoff could have solved the global climate problem. Project Walrider was alive and happening. Miles had been right. It was obnoxious being right all the time—especially when it seemed to do him no good.

They exited an elevator and walked down a hallway that seemed familiar. There was clean carpet, newly painted walls, much better light fixtures, and doors with name plaques. The orderly knocked and waited politely.

“Enter.”

The orderly opened the door and the security officer pushed Miles inside. Jeremy Blaire sat on the other side of a fine mahogany desk with Richard Trager leaning against a wood-paneled wall beside him. Miles was roughly led to a nice leather chair on wheels and pushed down into the chair.

“Rude,” Miles snapped at the security officer. “Where’s Billy?” Miles attempted to find a comfortable way to sit with his hands cuffed behind his back.

“Ugh,” said Jeremy, putting his fingers to his temples. “Hung over. Way too many celebratory martinis last night.” Trager chuckled behind him. “Not in the mood for you bullshit today Mr. Upshur. Gag him.”

The last phrase was a command to the security guard who wasted no time forcing a thick leather strap into Miles mouth and securing it behind his head. Miles did not make it easy, but he could not fight too hard. He kept his chin up, but inside he was in a cold panic.

“So much better,” sighed Jeremy Blaire, turning to the phone on his desk—previously Miles’ cell. “Seems your boyfriend isn’t answering your texts. Pity, I was under the impression you two were close.” Miles tried to make sense of the sentence. Jeremy was texting Billy? But Billy was in the asylum somewhere, and he did not even own a cellphone due to the swarm’s interference making them obsolete. Jeremy’s fingers tapped on the screen and then he set the phone on the desk. Miles could hear it ringing on speaker.

“Hello?” Miles’ heart flew into his throat. Billy. He stared in confusion, gnawing at the strap in his mouth.

“Hello. I’m calling on behalf of Miles Upshur. I need to speak with Billy.”

“Speaking,” said Billy. “Did something happen? Is Miles alright?”

“I’m sorry, that is classified information,” said Jeremy. “I’m calling because Mr. Upshur has been committed to our facility. I believe you may have heard of it: Mount Massive Asylum.”

An eerie silence came from the phone. It lasted long enough that Jeremy frowned down at the phone. “Are you with Murkoff?” Billy asked.

Jeremy chuckled. “As far as you’re concerned, I am Murkoff Incarnate. You see, your friend was snooping around and led us straight to something we had not realized we had misplaced. It seems one of our little science projects wandered off some years ago while we assumed it was dead. I know who you are, Billy Hope. I also know what you are.” Jeremy shifted his posture in his executive leather chair allowing his meaning to be fully absorbed before continuing. “I can help you. The research has grown in leaps and bounds since your departure. The Walrider Project was only in its infancy when you experienced your lateral ascension. Today, we have the tools, the research, the technology—we can help you. We can give you complete control over the swarm. Or remove it completely if you chose. We have the knowledge and the equipment here at Mount Massive.”

At Mount Massive—where Miles was, and Billy was not. Had he been in a different position he could have kicked himself for being such a fucking idiot. Of all the times to be wrong. But the fact that Billy was not being held at the asylum brought him some amount of peace.

There was no reply from Billy except for heavy breathing echoing through the speaker of the phone.

“I’m afraid it is of utmost importance that we meet,” Jeremy continued. “We needed to ensure that you would come. That’s why Mr. Upshur is here. Say hello, won’t you?” Jeremy jerked his chin at someone behind Miles and he felt the latch behind his head undone and the gag became loose.

“BILLY-Stay-away. Do not come. DO NOT COME. BILLY RUN AWAY. GET OUT OF TH…” Miles continued to scream against the leather gag as it was violently replaced.

“Miles!” cried Billy over the phone. “Oh god Miles, are you alright? Miles?”

Miles attempted to squirm out of the security officer’s grip but backup had already arrived and Miles was quickly back to square one.

“I apologize for that, it appears that Mr. Upshur does not have anything _useful_ to say at this moment,” said Jeremy.

“Don’t you dare hurt him,” said Billy, his voice had gone cold and low over the line. “No therapy. No tests. Do not lay a hand on him.”

“Well, that depends on you now, Mr. Hope,” said Jeremy. “Come to Mount Massive. Allow us to run our routine examination, and we'll make sure that Mr. Upshur is released—free from harm. If you refuse this offer thought...I’m afraid we will need to continue on our mission to find another host, and…what’s that Mr. Upshur? Did you just volunteer for the Morphogenic Engine program? Brave man…”

“I’ll come. But I won’t stay unless Miles is released. No tests, not even a fingerprint, until Miles is driving home,” said Billy.

“This offer expires soon. Mr. Upshur will be thrown into general population tonight if you fail to follow through,” said Jeremy.

“Get a room ready for me. I’ll be seeing you soon,” said Billy.

_Beep_.

Miles fought all the way back to the padded cell was he was thrown back inside. His body felt exhausted from the fight and the lack of sleep and food. By a small favor, Gil was still his cellmate and he helped Miles onto the bare bed before he finally passed out. There was no way to tell with the constant buzzing halogen lighting how many hours had passed. Had he slept for five minutes or five hours? Gil was sitting nearby humming to himself.

Miles sat up, working his jaw where it felt sore from the earlier gag. He held his head in his mangled hands and cursed himself. They never had Billy. Jeremy Blaire had used him to trap Billy, and it had worked. He could feel himself slipping into despair. If he lost Billy, what then? How could he even forgive himself if he lost two boyfriends to Mount Massive’s machine of horrors? He would publish the story. He had to. But what would it cost him? The obnoxiously upbeat humming finally began to grate on Miles’ nerves.

“Would you…I’m sorry Gil, but can you fucking cut it out?”

“I apologize,” said Gil, and instead of humming he began swaying his head and smiling. At least it was silent.

“How can you even manage to stay upbeat at a time like this?”

“Can’t you hear it?” asked Gil, cocking his deformed head and staring with his one unblinking eye at Miles. “Listen. You just have to listen. Our Lord the Walrider is coming.” Gil then erupted in a string of giggles much too childish and happy. Miles jumped when the door opened and he found himself once again shackled and forced down strange hallways. This time he was forced into an elevator. The orderly produced a strange looking key and inserted into a special slot beneath the other buttons. They rode the elevator down for what felt like an eternity. When they emerged, Miles was led into a pristine bathroom and an orderly used washcloths to clean his bleeding hands and dirty face. He was even given some simple bandages for his fingers.

“Hope is in the building,” came a crackled voice over the handheld radio on a security guard’s belt.

Billy. Miles’ stomach fluttered so violently he thought he would be sick. Never mind that he hadn’t eaten since the night he went to Denver. Hunger was the least of his worries, but it left him feeling very weak. He was not sure he would be ready for the fight that was definitely coming. Miles thought of Puddles, and the scientists present when Billy first ascended. It seemed like too good of a death for Jeremy Blaire.

After the bathroom, Miles was led to a tiny room with one wall that was a thick glass window. Two security officers stayed in the room with Miles. They seemed tense. Did they know what they were facing?

After several minutes, Miles’ feet were getting sore and he felt lightheaded. He somehow managed to snap to attention with the doors in the room visible through the large window opened. Through the doors walked two security guards flanking Billy. He was wearing one of his usual flannel shirts, a dark blue plaid pattern, over regular jeans. His wavy hair looked clean and fluffy. Miles was not sure he’d ever seen a more spectacular sight. A strange greenish gas flooded the room through strange dispensers in the corners of the tiny room, but it cleared quickly and Miles noticed no other changes.

Billy mouthed something on the other side of the wall and walked to the window. Miles moved to join him there, and a security guard cleared his throat. “The yellow button. Allows you to talk.” Someone must have told Billy the same thing because his voice came through a speaker into Miles’ side of the glass.

“Miles, are you okay?” asked Billy over the speaker. Miles thought he might finally cry just from hearing that voice. The doors opened and more guards filled Billy’s room, flanking Jeremy Blaire. The same spray of green fumes repeated. Jeremy stood back, out of the way, but he glared at Miles through the window.

Miles pressed the button and stared at Billy. “Billy. Get out of here. They’re not going to help you. No one’s going to help you. You need to leave. Now.”

“I won’t leave you, Miles,” said Billy, holding down the button. He pressed his hand against the window and when he did, Miles could see the nanites swarming. They were growing thicker, becoming more visible, filling the chamber with a kind of haze and Billy frowned in frustration. “We can’t reach you?” Billy seemed confounded that anything could contain a nanite.

Miles felt dread growing in his stomach. Billy had planned to get to him using the swarm, but Murkoff had put a wrench in that plan with these strange chambers they were forced into.

“Don’t worry about me. Get out. Whatever way you came in, go out. **Use whatever means necessary** ,” said Miles, keeping his eyes glued to Billy’s through the glass. “Do you understand?”

Billy shook his head and pressed his hand on the glass again. Miles shook his head, smiling sadly as he pressed his own mangled hand against the glass. Billy stared at the injury and Miles watched as the whites of his eyes seemed to slowly fill up with black ink. The Walrider was quick to pick up a guard and slam him against the back of the strange containment chamber. The nanites pulled and the man ripped apart, entrails spilling onto the ground and causing all of the guards to jump and scream. Miles could not hear anything, but he could only imagine the horror in that small room. Only Jeremy Blaire seemed unshaken. He held up a radio to his lips and Miles heard his voice in Miles’ room over another radio: “Proceed with Plan B.”

Miles was still watching the mayhem and staring at Billy’s sad eyes when he was cracked in the side of the head with a baton. Miles stumbled to his knees and struggled to get back to his feet. He felt the side of his head and his hand came away sticky and warm. The guard then slid the club around his throat and held onto it, pulling tight enough that Miles struggled to swallow around the intrusion, though he could still breathe.

“We know what you are, Mr. Hope,” came Jeremy’s voice over the hand held radio still transmitting to Miles’ side. “If you decide to go against our agreement, Mr. Upshur dies. The world won’t miss him. And you can’t get out of this room without my authorization. If you don’t follow the rules--you both die here.

Miles locked eyes with Billy and nodded as best he could. “Go,” he attempted to say, the words getting choked off by the baton. “Leave.” He tried to point toward the door with his right hand before remembering he lost that finger. He pointed with his left instead.

“Fine,” came Billy’s tense voice. “You stick with the agreement, too. Get Miles out of here. Don’t hurt him,” said Billy. “Once he’s out of here, and safe, I’ll go into the chamber. But one more thing…” The Walrider seemed to materialize out of nowhere behind Jeremy, its tendrils roping around his neck and pulling tighter. “If I don’t see him leaving here safe, you’re the first to die.”

Jeremy held the radio up to his mouth, still nonplussed. “Please show Mr. Upshur to the door.”

“NOOO,” Miles howled, as he was carried between two security guards. He tried to fight but he was so weak it was pointless. “Billy, kill them, now, _kill them_. Save yourself. Do not trust them. No one’s going to help you, Billy _please…_ ”

“If I hear any distress from that radio, you die, idiot,” said one of the guards dragging Miles back to the elevator. Before he knew where he was, he was being carried down a long corridor toward an exit sign.

“Billy’s going to die if he stays,” said Miles. His fight became less and less violent as the last of his strength evaporated. The guards led him to his red Jeep and put him behind the wheel. Then Miles heard the distinctive sound of a gun being cocked and he stopped and held his hands up weakly.

“Alright Billy,” came Jeremy’s voice over the radio. “Submit, or Mr. Upshur’s about to become a stain.”

Miles briefly wondered if he couldn’t fight the one guard, but the gun was trained directly between his eyes. Still, he could try? If he wasn’t so goddamn weak…

There was static and silence for a moment before Miles heard Billy’s voice over the same monitor. “Drive away Miles. Goodbye. I love you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, there's only 4 more chapters left and they're mostly done. We're getting through this together.


	17. Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy's in Mount Massive, but Miles has a plan.

Miles sped down the highway. He couldn't stop replaying Billy's voice the last time he had heard it over the radio, followed shortly by Jeremy Blaire's warning. "If you come back, I will kill him—and you. If you release a report about my company, I will kill him. He was willing to gamble his life on you. Are you going to throw his away?"

But what kind of life was he saving for Billy? He wasn't worried that Murkoff would kill Billy. The host of the Walrider was much more valuable to them alive. He was worried that Murkoff would make Billy wish for death.

As he zoned out with his eyes on the road, Miles could almost see Billy that last morning. The way he had begged. The lazy morning when they felt like they had all the time in the world to indulge in one another. The memory brought back the blind anger toward Eddie Gluskin for putting Waylon in the hospital, and dragging Miles away from that promise. There was no way Murkoff could have captured Billy without his compliance. Miles cursed himself for being too fucking stupid to have realized that. He always considered himself intelligent--good at reading the situation. Yet he had been blind to Chris' deteriorating health until he was being forcibly institutionalized. And he had not known about Billy's false imprisonment until it was too late.

Pulling up to Billy's house, knowing he was not there, left Miles feeling uneasy. He rushed to the door, frowning that he did not have a key. He tried to consider a way to pick the lock. He checked around for fake rocks, and lifted the rug looking for a spare key. Eventually, he pulled away the screen door and tried the handle. It was unlocked. A shiver wracked his spine as he pictured Billy leaving in a blind frenzy in his decrepit pick-up truck. Racing to his doom.

Once inside, Miles rushed to Wernicke's room and was surprised to find the man sitting in his same chair. Miles realized that Billy may have only been gone for a few hours. Some of the lights were blinking red and an alarm was sounding. "Hey Rudy."

"Where is Billy?" asked Wernicke, wheezing away in his chair. "He rushed out of the house and said it was an emergency. What happened to Billy?"

"Murkoff," said Miles. "Murkoff happened to Billy. They used me, and I fucked up. He's there, right now. They seemed to be able to keep him contained. I'm not sure how to help him. They said if I come back they'll kill him—or me. I believe them." Miles held up his mangled hands to emphasize his statement. "Billy said he'd rather be dead than experience the Engine again. I saw patients, and the side-effects are terrifying. I have to get him out—one way or another."

"The lab at Mount Massive was deep underground," said Wernicke.

"I know," said Miles, sitting down, his shoulders hunching forward awkwardly. He felt the weariness of the past days threaten to crush him.

"You saw the Engine?" asked Wernicke, the faintest hint of awe in his wheezing voice.

"No. There was a long elevator ride to get down to the room where they held Billy. We were separated by some kind of thick, transparent divider. They sprayed him with, I don't know, some kind of gas when he walked in. And the doors were armored and automatic."

"Gott Im Himmel...The Walrider cannot escape such containment," said Wernicke.

"But Billy can," said Miles, sitting up straighter despite the pain in his body. "He's smart. He's fit. The Walrider can help, even if it can't go through walls or do whatever it is the Walrider does..."

"They will not give him a chance to find a way out. Billy is likely already undergoing their tests. If you did not see the Engine, it's possible they have not been able to get the Morphogenic Engine operational. That's the only hope for Billy. You need to get him out. Once he's outside their containment, the Walrider can take care of itself."

"They said they would kill him," said Miles.

"They will kill him either way," wheezed Wernicke. "I can tell you how to reach the laboratory—but you will have promise to do something for me in return."

"Anything," said Miles.

"The elevator is only accessible by those with the highest level of security," said Wernicke. "It's key operated. With the correct key, any elevator should be able to deposit you in the underground laboratory. You need only to get back inside of Mount Massive, use the key in an elevator, and free Billy—before they get him into the Engine."

"I remember the key mechanism in the elevator. But I'll never get close. Not without some kind of distraction. Not without someone else helping me," said Miles, frowning as he pulled out his cell phone. Without Billy around, he had perfect reception. He quickly dialed his contact at Mount Massive and waited while his phone rang. "Pick up, David. Pick up. Pickup-pickup-pickup..." Miles hung up and tried again. And again. "Shit," he hissed in frustration, stopping just short of chunking his cell phone across the room. "My one contact at Mount Massive isn't responding. I guess I'll need another plan."

"If, on the off chance they do have Billy hooked up to the Morphogenic Engine, and it is fully operational—you will need to override the system to free him. Please, do not waste more time. But now, you _promised..._ " said Wernicke.

Miles was already standing up and preparing to leave. He stopped short and turned back around. "Yeah? What do you need? Should I change any tanks or dials before I go? Is there someone I can call to come and take care of you? Do you want to try and come with me?"

"If you could, just flip the switch right there, the one near the circular dial, the red switch," said Wernicke, his finger twitching slightly. Miles frowned and walked next to the massive life-support machine attached to Wernicke. Miles pointed to the only red switch.

"This one?"

"Ja," said Wernicke, his German accent becoming thicker. Miles shrugged and flipped the switch. He jumped in alarm when all of the different dials and buttons went dark and the machine slowly came to a stop.

"Shit! What did I do!" asked Miles, he flipped the switch again, and again, but nothing happened. He stared at Wernicke, watching what little color remained drain from his face.

"It is good," said Wernicke. His breathing more labored as the machine slowed to a complete stop. "I am...tired."

"Fuck," said Miles, he leaned down to grasp Wernicke's frail hand, still positioned near the chair's control. "Billy's going to kill me."

"It is the only way. He would never let me go," said Wernicke.

"That was a dirty trick, Rudy," said Miles, frowning at the man taking his last labored breaths.

"This is what I want," wheezed Wernicke. "Under the mattress. The corner nearest...the lamp. Billy doesn't need me anymore. He has you..."

_Then we're all doomed_ , thought Miles. He put on a brave face and nodded at Wernicke as his head lolled back and milky eyes closed halfway. It was several long minutes before his chest finally stilled. Miles frowned. Perhaps he should have felt more uncomfortable in the presence of the recently deceased. Instead, he was reminded of the last days he had spent with his parents. Human remains were interesting. One moment, Rudolf Wernicke was the oldest man to ever life, and the next he was a bio-hazard.

Miles picked up the house phone and called for an ambulance to arrive and assist with the removal of the body. He had no intention of waiting around to answer uncomfortable questions about Max Mustermann.

He made one final stop in Wernicke's room before he left. He lifted up the mattress, near the pillow, in the corner closest to the table with a lamp. He thrust his hand between the mattress and the box springs, feeling around. He frowned as he bumped against something and pulled out a magazine. The writing was all in German, but Miles did not need a translator.

"You dirty bastard," he scoffed as he glanced at the cover sporting a young man in ass-less chaps. He flipped through quickly to confirm that there were, indeed, naked men throughout the magazine, most of them with thick carpets of hair on their chests and handlebar mustaches. "Not usually my type, but I guess, in a pinch..." Miles muttered to himself. Something fell from the pages, and clanged to the floor. Miles got on all fours and reached under the bed, pulling back a strange key. It was made of tarnished metal with a strange design that did not seem meant for a door. Miles had a feeling he knew exactly what it would unlock.

Miles left before the clean-up crew arrived. He took the dirty magazine. He had to make good time. He only had one other plan, and it was a long-shot.

——

"I wish you would at least stop by a hospital. Those fingers look terrible, doesn't it hurt to drive?"

"No time," said Miles, focused on the road, his foot pressing hard on the gas pedal of the tiny Ford.

"Slow down," hissed Waylon. "You drive your Jeep like you stole it, but that doesn't mean you should treat my baby like that."

"Time is a factor, Park," said Miles, his face locked in a grimace as he glared at the road. Making the horrible trip to Mount Massive for the second time in the last twenty-four hours.

"Then pull over and let me drive," said Waylon, crossing his arms. He wore a long sleeved olive shirt over a comfortable pair of jeans.

"No. You have a bum foot. You need to save your strength so you can drive the last of the way," said Miles.

"How do you know they won't recognize me? I used to go with you to all of your visits with Chris. I didn't go inside, but the gate guard might remember me," said Waylon.

"No one recognized me, how would they recognize you?" asked Miles. "Besides, even your own mother would have trouble recognizing you right now. Your face looks like an overripe tomato," said Miles.

Waylon sniffed and stared out the window. He reached out to turn on the radio and the small car was suddenly filled with obnoxious eighties dance music. Waylon wasted no time in belting out along with the music, further grating on Miles' nerves. The sing-a-long continued through several songs before Miles finally shut the music off, violently.

"Hey!" said Waylon, pouting. "It's my car. I can listen to what I want!"

"We are getting close. I need to stay focused. You need to focus! Are you...are you even taking this seriously?"

"Yes," said Waylon, sighing as he leaned against the window. "I'm scared. But I'll do it, because you asked me to."

"Let's hear your lines again," said Miles, eyes glued to the road as they got closer and closer to Mount Massive.

"Hi, my name is Max Mustermann, " said Waylon, his voice sounding flat and bored. "I need to speak about having my sister admitted to your establishment. As you can see, she's become even more violent lately to the point that I can no longer provide help myself. She suffers from terrible uh, PTSD, and delusions? And self harm? And other people harm?"

" _Why are you saying it like a question_ , you need to sound more convincing," said Miles.

"Miles. My face is beat to hell and back. No one's going to question that I have some issues. I can keep their attention long enough for you to sneak in. Even if they're just staring at my grotesqueries," muttered Waylon. He had taken off the bandages for their journey. Miles found it very distracting to see his best friend looking like a red and purple mess with two white butterfly bandages holding together a large gash along his right cheekbone. The eye was barely able to open behind the swelling.

"Pisses me off," said Miles, tightening his grip on the steering wheel until the leather squeaked loudly,

"Don't mess up my car. The doctors said it'll heal. It's not a big deal. Even the ankle is just a minor fracture. I just wear the boot for a while. I can walk without crutches, I'm just slower. Are you worried I would lose my boyish good looks? Would you not love me if I was ugly?" asked Waylon. Miles gave a long-suffering stare out of the corner of his eye, but Waylon only smiled and attempted to flutter his eyelashes.

"You're ridiculous," muttered Miles. "Alright, this is the last roadside stop before we hit the mountain. It's a straight shot. You're sure you're okay to drive?"

Waylon nodded as Miles pulled into the gas station parking lot. "Yeah. I got this."

Miles ran inside and bought a sad looking sandwich from a cold freezer. He was starving, and would need his strength. When he returned to the car, he laid out across the back seat and Waylon covered him with a few old, fleece blankets.

"You can't see me?" asked Miles.

"No. I can't see you. But it does look like I'm moving around some kind of tacky blanket collection," said Waylon.

"Whatever, just drive," said Miles. He sat under the blankets, snacking on his sandwich.

"Are you eating?" asked Waylon.

"Yeah," said Miles with his mouth full of sandwich. "Is that a problem?"

"I was hungry too! You didn't even offer to get me any food," said Waylon.

"I haven't had anything to eat since the hospital. I am starving and about to take on a multi-million dollar corporation to try to save my boyfriend from certain death. You really want to begrudge me a sandwich?"

"You're so dramatic," sighed Waylon. "What's this guy like, anyways?"

"Billy?" asked Miles, his voice softening as he said the name. "He's...really kind, and thoughtful. He spent his entire life caring for his infirmed, adopted grandfather."

Waylon snickered in the driver's seat. "What is a saint like that doing with an _ass_ like you?"

"I have no idea," said Miles, grinning even though Waylon couldn't see. "He likes me, though--a lot. From the very first time we met."

"So were you with him when you came to visit Denver, and groped me in my sleep?" asked Waylon.

"Uhhh, that's...that's...I don't know actually," said Miles, shifting uncomfortably under his coverings. "I was not sure Billy and I were going to be together. I wasn't sure he was more than a source. And he's...he's young."

"How young?"

"Twenty-one," said Miles.

"Ah, that makes sense," said Waylon, exhaling through his nose in irritation.

"What makes sense?" asked Miles.

"You'd choose him over me now because he's young and hot," said Waylon.

"I didn't say he was hot," said Miles.

"Is he hot?"

"Yeah," said Miles. Waylon snorted. "But that's not why I want to save him. He's great. You'd like him. He does everything for everyone, and now he needs help. He's trying to sacrifice himself for me, and it's just, it's misguided. I don't deserve that kind of treatment. And even if I wasn't feeling so strongly about him, I wouldn't want my worst enemy to have to endure the 'treatment' they're subjecting him to." Miles paused for a moment before adding, "Wait, I take that back, I would subject Jeremy to that treatment all day long. Give him a taste of his own bullshit."

The car was curving and turning much more as they approached the peak of the mountain. Miles began to feel a little motion sick in the backseat under his blankets. He fidgeted with his cell phone, trying his Murkoff source again. The phone did not seem to have any signal.

"Who are you calling?" asked Waylon. "I heard you messing with your phone back there."

"Just a guy I knew up at Mount Massive. David. He's an orderly. We stayed in touch since the days I came to visit Chris. He was uneasy about what was going on there, offered to help me get information. He usually always answers my calls, but I can't reach him. Though I have no signal here. Almost like some kinda jammer rather than any sort of lack of cell towers.."

"You're always assuming the weirdest thing first. Don't you know that when you hear hooves, you're supposed to think horses, not zebras."

"Mount Massive is so fucked up, I hear hooves and think _unicorns_. I can't get into it with you right now, but trust me, there are really big, scary reasons we need to be on alert right now," said Miles.

"Alright, stay covered, I see the guard station," hissed Waylon.

The car slowed down as they passed the thick pine forest covering, and arrived at the gate house for Mount Massive. The sun was just setting, but the asylum was open twenty-four hours a day.

"Uhhh," said Waylon as his car came to a complete stop. Miles could hear Waylon moving around because of the squeak of the vinyl seats.

"Roll down the window," hissed Miles from under the blankets.

"I...there's no one at the guard station?" said Waylon.

"Well talk to whoever. Honk your horn?" suggested Miles. The Ford emitted a cutesy _beep beep_. "That's the horn? Really? What is this thing some kind of fucking clown car?"

"Would you shut up, no one's here. No one's coming," said Waylon.

"Look, there's always a guard in the station, all hours. There are others that patrol around the front of the building. Someone's heard you, just be patient," said Miles. But as the minutes pushed on he finally lost patience, and pulled the blankets off to look around. Waylon's eyes flew wide.

"You're blowing your cover, idiot!" said Waylon.

"There's no one here," said Miles.

"That's what I have been trying to tell you," hissed Waylon. Miles stared around and squinted, trying to see through the gates. A small fleet of strange military vehicles were parked on the lawn in front of the asylum.

"Those weren't here earlier," muttered Miles. He pushed the blankets to the floor, and took out his camcorder. He held it up and used it to zoom in, looking for any sign of life. As he panned over the outside of the building he saw a strange outline appear in one lighted window that abruptly went dark. Other than that, Waylon had been right—there was no sign of life. "I'm going in."

"No," said Waylon, shaking his head. He turned pleading eyes up at Miles, but the effect of that look was not as powerful with the one swollen eye and intense bruising.

"Come with me. I need to have a closer look around," said Miles. He opened the car door and stood next to the car. He checked his camera's battery level, shoved a dozen extras into his brown jacket pockets, and pulled out an additional camera.

"Jeez, have some batteries. Wait, you brought two cameras?" asked Waylon.

"Uh, I'd be pretty much the worst investigative journalist ever if I showed up to gather information on a story with one camera and no batteries," said Miles. Waylon considered it and then shrugged in agreement. "Here, you carry my extra. Might come in handy to have a backup, in case something happens to mine."

Waylon accepted the camera, and held it strangely, working with some buttons and testing different ways to hold it. Miles slammed the car door shut, and stalked toward the asylum.

Miles walked around the armored military vehicles on the lawn, recording them, and waiting for someone to come out and question them. But no one came. "Huh," he said out loud, causing Waylon to jump. "You okay, Park?"

"It's creepy here," said Waylon, wrapping his arms around himself while still holding the camera. "There's still lights on inside. Maybe it's some kind of drill? Or do you think it's a real emergency?"

"I wonder if all of this is because of Billy," said Miles, frowning. "Seems like overkill. When I left, he was completely contained by a simple chamber with automatic doors, and some kind of gaseous spray."

"Weird," said Waylon, holding up his own camera and messing with the settings. "What do we do?"

Miles walked up to the front door instead of answering. He tried to peer through the windows, but he could not see anything through the bars and dirty glass. Waylon crept up quietly behind him, frowning at the door. Miles pulled, and the doors opened without resistance. "I guess we're going inside."

"Should we be worried that a facility to house mental patients was unlocked and unguarded?" asked Waylon, his face locked in a worried frown.

"Don't be like that," said Miles, frowning over at Waylon. "People with mental health issues—they're more likely to be abused by others than to be abusers. Much of what we are shown of mental illness in the media is completely wrong. It paints them as dangerous to make people afraid. Really, all they need is our help. That's why I need to get this article out. The people in here? They're the victims, and they're being abused in nightmarish ways you can't hardly begin to believe. We are going to help Billy, but we will help everyone else, too. As many as we can."

Miles pulled the door open and walked inside first, with Waylon directly behind him. The area that was usually teeming with workers at computer consoles seemed completely evacuated. Miles walked to the doorway and listened, but all he could hear as the incessant beeping of several phones off the hook. He was suddenly distracted by the sound of Waylon retching. Miles rushed over to the main desk in the entrance way. There was no one sitting there, and he could not see Waylon over the tall desk.

"What the hell, Park?!" asked Miles before stopping dead in his traps. Behind the desk, on the ground, the remains of a security guard were sitting on the ground, a pile of entrails pooling around his disemboweled body. "Shit."

"What happened?! What...what...what is this," said Waylon, his voice coming out as a strangled hiss. Miles grabbed Waylon and pulled him in for a tight hug, walking while holding him to put some distance between them and the horrible sight.

"I have no idea," said Miles, though it was not exactly the truth. The sight of the guard's remains splattered behind the desk reminded him of Puddles. It reminded him of the guard earlier that day when Billy had discovered his injured hands. "Let's find someone. There's gotta be someone around here."

Miles threaded his fingers through Waylon's and clasped his hand tightly. They walked slowly because of Waylon's limp. Miles walked with confidence toward the main hallway in the visitor's area. Not only did he know the area from his many visits, but he also suspected that the problem was Billy and the Walrider. There was no way Billy would hurt him. Miles was sure. The main hallway was long and dark, illuminated only by a few emergency lights and red glowing exit signs. Miles stalked forward, but was pulled back by Waylon planting his feet.

"No. This is scary. I don't want to go down there," said Waylon.

"There is nothing to be afraid of," said Miles, squeezing Waylon's hand. "I can't explain it now, but Billy can protect us. We are going to be fine."

Their quiet conversation seemed to have alerted someone of their presence and Miles spotted a huge shadow looming at the end of the hallway, only vaguely outlined by the dim lighting. The sound of rattling chains came from the end of the hallway echoed in the quiet of the asylum, reminding Miles of the shackles that were used during his short stay.

"What's that," whispered Waylon, whimpering as he cowered closer to Miles in the dark hallway.

"Probably a patient. Don't worry. We can talk sense to them. I met some, they weren't violent..."

A low growl from the end of the hallway caused Waylon to whine at his side. Waylon held up his camera as though watching the scene through the viewfinder made it less real. Miles squinted his eyes as the shadow got closer. He braced himself to run in the opposite direction to avoid a confrontation in a small area when he heard it.

"Little pig..." the gravely voice seemed rougher than Miles remembered, but even after the year he had been without hearing it, he would recognize that voice anywhere.

"Let's go," hissed Waylon, tugging frantically at Miles' hand. He pulled his hand away from his friend and turned to take a couple of steps toward the new arrival.

"Chris?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good news, this is pretty much done. I will be posting in chunks as I get it out there. I made you guys wait long enough so I won't be withholding I'm just posting as it's polished.


	18. Run

There was a break in the sound of rattling chains and labored breathing. The large figure paused in the hallway, a black silhouette back-lit by the red glow of an exit sign. A loud, growling sound caused Waylon to clutch Miles’ wrist and tug, insistently.

“We need to go,” whispered Waylon, his fingers painfully tight around Miles’ wrist. A questioning grunt came from down the hallway. “ _Now_!”

“That’s gotta be Chris. Would you just calm down?” said Miles, trying in vain to shake off Waylon’s tight grip.

“Who’s there?” asked Chris, his voice low and rumbling, like thunder, as he resumed his steady walk down the hallway. Each heavy footstep was followed by the _clink_ of chains.

“Chris,” said Miles, standing his ground as the figure grew closer, individual features still hidden in the darkness. “It’s me. It’s Miles,” he said, his voice breaking as he declared his name. Waylon began to tug more urgently, but Miles continued to pull back, moving toward Chris.

“Little pig?” It was a low, grumbling question from the hulking figure.

“Yeah,” said Miles, laughing at the familiar nickname. He could not prevent a smile breaking out on his face. “It’s me. I never thought I’d see you again, after the last time, I didn’t know if you could recognize…”

Chris finally stepped close enough that the emergency lighting behind Miles and Waylon illuminated the front half of his body. Waylon’s fingers sliced painful half-moon cuts into Miles’ wrist with the force of his grip. Miles had to swallow to keep himself standing still.

Chris had changed since their last meeting. His face was a bleeding mess. Miles immediately flashed back to the day in their apartment when Chris had first mutilated himself in the grip of an anxiety triggered delusion. His forehead was a weeping wound, and his mouth no longer had visible lips. Some type of metal contraption was nailed into his jaw to keep his mouth in a constant snarl. Then, there was his size. Chris had always been extremely tall, nearing seven feet. He had been a soldier with a large, meaty frame, but there was much more mass that day. His shirtless, blood-splattered chest was covered with scars that were familiar to Miles. They matched the scars on Billy’s body.

“Oh babe, we are going to get you out of here,” said Miles, holding out a hand toward Chris. “Come on, we will find someone that can really help you. Finally, get you the help you need…”

Chris’s slow advance continued until he was within arm’s reach. Chris extended his hands, and Miles realized, too late, his fingers had been somehow sharpened into long, bloody claws. They wrapped around his throat with unnatural strength, and raised Miles onto his toes. Miles struggled, trying to talk, but his airway was closed off. His attempts to pry Chris’ claws away with his own mangled hands proved futile.

“No!” howled Waylon, but he was interrupted by the sound of a door slamming further down the hall. It was followed closely by the sound of several running footsteps, and screaming from the other end of the hallway. Whoever was running, they were bolting toward the doorway Miles and Waylon had used to enter the asylum. Chris’ cloudy eyes narrowed as he tossed Miles against the wall with such ease that Miles might have been a straw doll. He hit with a sickening thud and collapsed onto the thin carpet, struggling to catch the breath that had been knocked out of him. Chris tore off down the hallway they had just come through, causing several screams to echo eerily off the walls.

“We have to contain it…no escape,” said Chris, grunting and talking to himself as he moved further away.

“Miles, get up, we need to get out of here!” said Waylon. “We need to get back to the car. We need to call the police.”

Miles’ throat was sore, and his breath came in strangled gasps. He had to force himself to relax, to calm down, and then slowly the air returned. He brought a hand up to rub at his bruised throat. “I’m not leaving without Chris…” he rasped.

A high pitched scream from down the hall demanded their immediate attention In the emergency lighting, Waylon and Miles watched as Chris held up a struggling man in a patient’s uniform. Chris’ hand was around the man’s throat, exactly as he had held Miles moments before. With a sickening crunch and squelch, the man’s head was removed, ending the high pitched screaming. A dull thud announced that the body had been tossed aside, one head shorter. Gil’s rambling the previous day suddenly seemed perfectly sane. Miles and Waylon were both staring in horror when Chris turned back to face them. He began to charge toward the pair.

“Run,” said Miles, having a sudden change of heart. Miles struggled to his feet and grabbed Waylon’s hand. The pair began to run down the hall. Waylon’s hand squeezing his injured fingers made Miles hiss in pain. “Ouch! Hurry up!”

“I can’t jackass,” said Waylon, obviously struggling in the boot he was required to wear to protect his fractured ankle.

“Shit,” muttered Miles. He saw an open doorway in the dark and ran through it, dragging Waylon behind him. The pair went to the back of the room, seeing that it was a dead end storage space. Chris’ footsteps and the grating of metal chains announced his arrival. Miles knelt down and pulled Waylon with him, using his injured hand to clamp over Waylon’s mouth and stop any protests. The pair crouched in the dark, huddled together, struggling to keep their breathing quiet.

“Little pig?” came Chris’ low, gravely voice from the doorway. The sound of doors opening in the hallway echoed inside their hiding spot. “You don’t have to run from me.” Waylon tried to make some retort, but Miles redoubled the pressure on his mouth. When Chris stood in the doorway of their hiding place, all light was momentarily blocked by his huge frame. Miles could hear Chris grunting as he scanned the area. Miles was afraid to move; afraid to breath. He willed his heart to stop beating for a moment, in case the monster in his ex-boyfriend’s skin could detect the blood throbbing in his veins. Chris finally walked away down the hall, the metallic clink growing softer and softer. Miles deflated as he released Waylon’s mouth and collapsed into a seated position on the storage room floor.

“Your ex-boyfriend seems really nice,” hissed Waylon in the darkness.

“Shut up. That’s not Chris,” said Miles, the statement coming out harsher than intended. Miles wrapped his arms around his middle and doubled over where he was sitting on the ground. “I tried…I tried, I tried, you saw me, you know, but it…” His mangled hands were quaking. No matter how hard he pressed them against his body, the shaking continued.

“Shhh, are you seriously losing it right now?! Dammit, Miles…”

“I need a drink.”

“You need to calm down. We’re never going to make it out of here if you don’t keep it together!”

“This is all my fault,” said Miles, and it was followed by a rather frightening bark of laughter.

“Keep it down, you don’t want to bring that thing back over here…”

“That thing? You mean, my ex-boyfriend? You mean Chris? The first person that ever loved me, who I promised I would fight for him, and stay with him. The person who started everything that led me here, to Colorado, to Mount Massive, to you, to Billy, to this shit situation right now that’s threatening to kill every single person I care about in this world?”

“Okay, breathe…” said Waylon, fumbling in the dark to reach for Miles and put his arms around his shoulders. “You’re shaking. You can’t blame yourself, this wasn’t on you. You care about people, more than you care about yourself. That’s not the worst flaw a person can have.” Waylon pressed his face into the back of Miles neck, holding him. Miles pushed his chin into his knees, trying to curl into a tighter ball, wishing he could disappear.

“What kind of cursed person do I have to be that everyone who’s ever cared about me ends up suffering terribly,” asked Miles, quietly.

“Now you’re being dramatic,” said Waylon, and Miles could feel his lips curl into a smile where they pressed against the back of his neck. “We can fix this. We can get Billy, and get the police, and make all of this right. I believe in you.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“Stop,” said Waylon, pressing soft lips to Miles’ skin. “At least you’re not shaking anymore. Can you pull it together, you think, just until we get to an elevator?” Miles took a very deep breath and slowly released it before nodding. “Are you nodding? It’s dark in here…”

“Yes, okay…”

“Why does he call you little pig, anyways?” asked Waylon. Miles entire body shook with his effort to keep his laughter under control and avoid giving away their location.

“When we were together, the first time we finally hooked up, we were surrounded by bunks and had to be quiet, but I couldn’t keep quiet once he was inside,” said Miles, grinning into the dark. “Apparently, the noise I made was akin to a stuck pig. I never heard the end of it until I went back to the States. Of course, Chris continued to call me his little pig. I thought maybe he recognized me when he said that. But maybe it’s just, random synapse firing in his brain, a stray memory. Maybe he thinks he’s back on the base patrolling, fighting enemies, and looking for his little pig.” Miles gave a long sigh. He felt Waylon pull away in the dark. “It’s a goddamn travesty. He’s a victim.”

Waylon carefully stood up and walked to the door. Miles watched him take a deep breath before taking the smallest peek outside of the door. He quickly hopped back over to the dark corner. “He’s patrolling the way back to the main entrance. He’s not going to let us pass.”

“Then we find another way. If we can’t use the elevator in the main entrance, then we have to find another,” said Miles.

“It’s pitch black. We can’t see a damn thing. We can wait until he’s distracted, we can run out the front door behind him, we can…”

“I’m getting Billy. But you’re right—it’s too dangerous, now. You stay here, I’ll get you after I’m done,” said Miles.

“Are you fucking insane?! I’m not splitting up from you. And I know that you’re having a rough time with all this, but you should realize that Billy…I’m sorry Miles, but he’s likely dead, or in the middle of this riot, running for his life. How do you think you can help him?”

“Listen,” said Miles, taking a deep breath, “throw out your judgment for a minute, and just listen. Billy…he’s likely the cause of this.” There was no movement, no comment, only silence as Waylon knelt beside him in their pitch black hiding place. “I found him on a tip about a project that was supposedly scrapped for being a failure, and for questionable, unethical practices in achieving the research. I unearthed it while trying to figure out what was going wrong with Chris, why he was getting worse and worse. I wanted to bring down Murkoff. A simple address I followed up on led me to Billy. His grandfather, the one that adopted him, he was actually the scientist in charge of the project. They were in hiding from Murkoff. Because the project was not a failure, it was a success, and Billy was the proof.”

“What the fuck kind of project are we talking about that makes people turn into monsters?!”

“Project Walrider. It changes your body, your cells, to produce tiny microscopic robotics that are able to be controlled if the person meets the right criteria, and has been exposed to a certain conditioning which gives them the ability to host the nanites,” said Miles.

“This makes no fucking sense, can you just explain it in simple terms…”

“Billy’s the host of the Walrider. The nanites, acting together, under Billy’s control, are insanely powerful, and they can kill someone in a matter of seconds, tear them apart from the inside, even,” said Miles.

“Okay, so we are definitely leaving them. Fuck that, I’m not getting turned inside out and exploding all over the walls of this…”

“Billy controls it. He wouldn’t kill me. He sacrificed himself to get me away from here. He’s likely fighting his way out. That’s why there’s all the chaos, and people running and fighting. All we have to do is get down to the Engine, underground. We can find an elevator. We can get there, and we can escape with him. Nothing in this place, not even Chris, can match Billy.”

“No. Let’s leave. Please Miles, if he can take care of himself, then we can get out of here, we can go back to town and wait for him,” said Waylon.

“Murkoff is able to hold him. They were able to contain him, to make the switch for me. He’s likely trapped somewhere. Perhaps he’s separated from the Walrider and controlling it remotely. I don’t know. But if he is trapped, he can’t get out without assistance. But once he’s free, he could carry us both out of here on his shoulders, and rip apart anyone in the way at the same time.”

“This sounds fucking insane you realize that, right?”

“You can wait here…”

“I’m coming,” said Waylon, standing up from their dark hiding place. When he continued, his voice sounded on the edge of tears, “but I don’t know how far we are going to get in the darkness of this place. Someone cut the power…”

“Lucky for you, I came prepared,” said Miles, smirking though no one could see in the dark. He retrieved his camera and flipped a button, activating the night vision. He trained the camera on Waylon’s face. In the strange green lighting of the camera, he could see his friend, clear marks from tears and snot running down his face. “Oh, Park. Keeping me from falling apart, while you’re barely keeping it together yourself…” Miles reached out his free hand to gently swipe away the moisture from Waylon’s cheeks.

“I’m scared,” admitted Waylon, sniffling.

“Me too,” said Miles. He leaned forward to wrap an arm around Waylon, pulling him in for a tight hug. “I am too. I’m so sorry that I got you mixed up in this mess.”

“No more blaming yourself. You had no way of knowing,” said Waylon, his words muffled against Miles’ shoulder as he nuzzled his forehead against his jacket. “Let’s just get away from your ex-boyfriend.”

“Hey, another thing we have in common now,” said Miles, standing up and helping Waylon to his feet.

“What’s that?”

“We were both physically assaulted by our ex-boyfriends!”

“Eddie’s not my ex…”

“Yes he is,” said Miles, walking quickly to the door, before Waylon could offer a counter argument. He flipped on the night vision and used it to navigate through the hallways. He tried to remember the visiting areas he had frequented when visiting Chris. He attempted to envision the route he had taken to the elevator when he had arrived looking for Billy. He could never hope to recall the way to the holding cells for the non-violent patients—he had been barely conscious after losing one fifth of his fingers. The pair pressed close together, and walked slowly through the pitch black corridors.

There were patients milling about in the darkness. Most of them were hiding. Some were wandering, patrolling, or carrying make-shift weapons. Waylon and Miles made sure to avoid anyone that looked dangerous.

“Hey…hey I know you,” came a familiar voice as Miles and Waylon pressed close to the wall, avoiding a large open room that may have been a theater at one time. A projector somewhere was broadcasting a silent, black and white picture that Miles remembered from Wernicke’s files. He quickly diverted his eyes.

“Gil,” said Miles, giving a sigh of relief. He never thought he would be so happy to see that bulging eye and Gils’ face, ravaged by cancerous growth and amateur surgery. “Hey, can you point me to an elevator? I have some business I need to do. Once we are done, we will get you guys out of here. We can get help for everyone.”

“But there is no need for additional help. Our Lord, the Walrider, he is here, raining his Judgment and Justice down on the nonbelievers! There is no escape, except through Him.”

“Exactly,” said Miles, “the Walrider. I know him—well, it. I am here to rescue the host, and free the Walrider. They’ve got him down below, he’s trapped. He could be in the Engine. I need to get down there, immediately, and…”

“If you truly know the Walrider, you must meet with Father Martin! He would want to hear everything you know. You can share His words, His teachings, with the rest of us. Proclaim the Gospel like his chosen Apostle! I have not been lucky enough to glimpse the Walrider, but others have seen Him roaming the grounds and halls. It is speculated that our Lord is looking for something.”

“A way out, no doubt,” said Miles. Waylon’s insistent tugging on his jacket caused him to turn around.

“Is this guy talking about Billy?” whispered Waylon, not looking at Miles as he spoke. His eyes were glued to the dangerous projected images.

“Uh, kinda, yeah, the thing inside of Billy, the Walrider,” said Miles.

“Then why is he acting like it’s some kind of god?” asked Waylon, still glassy eyed.

“People see something they don’t understand, they choose an explanation. When you see it—if you see the Walrider—you’ll know what I mean. Cloud of nanites won’t be the first thing your brain supplies to describe it, trust me.”

“What would my brain provide!?! You said Billy was hot!” said Waylon, finally managing to tear his eyes away from the screen and stare back at Miles.

“He is, but the Walrider…well…this guy’s calling it a god, but most people would call it a monster,” said Miles. Gil had been standing by, his one lidless eye twitching and his cancerous face unreadable as the friends conversed. “Listen,” he said, addressing Gil, “I am very close to the Walrider, and the host. Very close. _Intimately_ acquainted. Show me the way to an elevator.”

“There is one just ahead in the Male Ward, but I fear there is a secular maniac running the area right now. He does not believe in the grace and mystery of our Lord…”

“That’s fine, just point the way,” said Miles.

“But, Father Martin…” said Gil, holding out his hands in supplication.

“Give the Father my regards, but the quicker we get down to the Engine, the quicker we can get everyone help. This is the Will of the Walrider. He speaks his Will through me.” The last bit earned him a sharp elbow in the ribs from Waylon.

“At the end of the hall, turn right. You can find the elevator on the other side of the ward, in the back corner,” said Gil. “Though I do wish you would reconsider. There is an elevator close to the chapel as well! It is a further walk, but Father Martin…”

“Will have to wait. Thanks!” said Miles as he put a hand on Waylon’s back, and pushed him in the direction Gil had indicated, causing him to start walking.

“Yes, our Lord, his Will, the Chosen One, the Apostle…” Gil continued to mutter to himself as he stumbled over his feet in his rush to get down a different hallway. It was the opposite direction of the Male Ward he had indicated. Waylon tripped over his medical boot, trying to watch Gil disappear.

“What the fuck happened to that guy,” said Waylon, his voice a hissing whisper. “I mean, his face, and his hand, and I mean…just…that eye…”

“This place is a nightmare factory,” said Miles. “Now, quiet.”

They did not encounter any other patients as they crept through the halls. Eventually, they came to a plaque on a wall denoting the entrance to the Male Ward. Miles opened the door, and almost heaved a sigh of relief, until the smell hit his nose. The entire area smelled of shit and rotting meat. Miles stopped Waylon with a hand motion. There were several different curtains sectioning off the large room into smaller areas. It was quiet, except for an ominous dripping noise echoing off the tiled walls of the cavernous room. Miles held his camera up and used it crane around the first curtain. He saw a hospital bed, saturated with blood and decorated with a collection of organs Miles could not identify. The slow drip came from the excess blood dropping to the floor, creating a large puddle. Miles swallowed and turned back to Waylon who was staring expectantly with large eyes. Miles just shook his head. Waylon pushed his head around to look, and almost fell as he jumped back and bumped into Miles.

“Fuck…this is Billy’s work?!”

“No,” said Miles. “No way. Something else is going on here. Something…you know, Gil told me, when we were in the cell together, that the patients that don’t make it in the Morphogenic Engine, they are given surgery to attempt to get them ready for a second go, but no one’s really expecting them to survive it. Gil seemed to think dying on the surgery table was preferable to another trip to the Engine.”

“You are talking Greek again…” said Waylon. He followed close as Miles began to walk slowly through the room. He swiveled his camera around, his pale face turning a sickly shade of green.

“Let’s just get to that elevator— _fast_ ,” said Miles.

The other curtains held a similar tableau of horrors. Waylon’s breathing was fast and shallow in Miles ear as he clung to his back while they walked. Some curtains hid patients, strapped down to beds, in different states of decay. They almost tripped on a slippery string of entrails originating from one table. Several of the bodies seemed to have matching blood stains in their groins, their tongues were ripped out, and then there were their hands. Miles stopped and stared hard at one of the corpses.

“Okay, so then, a doctor is doing this? This work is sanctioned by the asylum?! What on earth is the purpose of cutting off tongues and fingers,” asked Waylon.

“I think I know who’s doing this,” said Miles, a shiver, like having cold water poured down his back, wracked his body. “He’s sick. He took my fingers, just to spare having to crack the code to my phone. That was his excuse at least, I think he just likes watching people bleed.”

“Murkoff pays him to do this?” asked Waylon.

“I have no idea,” said Miles, pushing a hand through his hair. “The elevator has to be here somewhere. It has to be close. Let’s just get out of here.”

Waylon nodded and the pair began to walk another a gurney with a bleeding patient, but this time the bed immediately began to rock violently, and the patient began to fight against his restraints. The noise he made was a mixture between a gargle and a scream. Miles slowly pieced together that the strange clicking noise in the back of his throat was because someone had removed his tongue. A door at the far end of the hallway opened. Three figures were momentarily outlined in the light, wielding a collection of crude, blunt weapons. Miles pushed Waylon in the opposite direction. “Run.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise this is not going to be a complete walk through of the game, though it hits some familiar points. Also, please be advised, after playing the game, watching Let's Plays, and researching the asylum maps available online....I have no fucking idea how this place is set up, so I just made it all kinda one connected building, sorry if it's confusing. Writing about the actual asylum is very daunting to me, I don't want to mess it up. Posting 2 chapters today, only 22 total, almost done.


	19. Placebos

A roar came from the end of the hallway, like the noise at a football stadium when the home team scores a goal. Excitement. Adrenaline. Three figures were discernible in the dim lighting of the ward. A collection of crude clubs careened through the air as they sprinted, full speed, toward Waylon and Miles.

Dirty walls. Streaks of blood. At least, Miles hoped it was blood, and that thought made him question his sanity. Waylon was hobbling as best he could, but he was slowing them down. They turned a quick corner and Miles shoved Waylon through a door into a pitch dark room. “Hide--don’t make a sound,” he hissed as Waylon fell with a thud. “I’ll distract them, I’ll be back!” Miles stood in the middle of the hallway, and sprinted the second he saw the group rounding the corner.

Large portions of the hallway had no lighting at all. When Miles could not see, he forced his legs to carry him forward, unable to look through the camera and sprint efficiently. His hands made contact with the wall, alerting him to the dead end he had encountered, before his entire body smashed directly into the bricks. _No_. Miles pawed frantically at the wall. Door! A door. Miles threw the door open, and found himself inside some sort of holding cell with iron bars. One was open, and appeared empty. The other held a standing pool of blood, inches deep. Miles jumped into the dark, empty cell and put his wounded hands over his face to keep his labored breathing from giving him away.

Seconds. Minutes. Hours? It felt like forever that Miles was alone with the dark, the blood, and the rush of his pulse, echoing in the darkness. Three entered, and peered around the dark holding cells. Two turned around almost immediately, but one patient stayed, idly slapping a broken plank of wood against his open palm. He peered into the cell with the blood, and then into Miles’ hiding place. Miles could see the man over his camera’s night vision, his eyes shining like white beacons through the strange green coloring. Miles could make out the growths and scars on his face, the definition of each rib from his emaciated body, and the bloody shards of teeth that were visible as he sneered into the black cell.

Against all odds, the aggressive patient turned, and walked away. Miles turned the camera off and held his head in his hands for several moments, breathing--thinking. What next? He couldn’t stay there. He didn’t want to. He got up and began walking slowly back the way he had run. It had been a straight shot, and he had not detoured. He had to pause at one intersection because he spotted one of the pursuers, still wandering the halls. At last, Miles reached the familiar door he had flung open on his initial run. He pushed through quickly and held his camera up. He looked around the black room with the night-vision, frantically looking around for Waylon.

The room was large and dark, ringed with hospital beds the same as the first area. Miles stepped cautiously into the area and looked around at the obvious hiding places. Under beds. Dark corners. He even looked up where a grate was hanging leaving a vent partially accessible for someone small.

“Waylon?” Miles whispered into the vent, straining to hear any response. He did not have to wait long. A blood curdling scream echoed from nearby. Miles pushed through the dark room into a larger room, lit by light pouring in from a partially opened doorway. There were more beds in the second, cavernous room, and several of the patients to begin to pull against their restraints in agitation. The scream originated from the open door. Miles rushed to the entrance and peered through the crack. He recognized Waylon immediately, strapped down to a table. The figure looming over him was also familiar.

“If you scream like that again, I just might have to take your tongue first,” said Trager.

Miles felt powerless as he watched through the doorway. Trager looked different than their previous meetings. That ridiculous, magnifying eyepiece he had worn now seemed to be part of his skull. The wound surrounding it was bloody and raw with uneven rows of stitches snaking over his face and head like tracks of black ants. Or maybe they were ants. It was difficult to tell from a distance. Even more confusing was what appeared to be an intravenous tube wrapping around his left arm, full of red liquid, but not attached to any other equipment. As morbidly fascinating as Trager’s appearance was, Miles was focused only on Waylon, struggling on the table.

“You have nothing to worry about,” Trager was saying to Waylon, “I’m a doctor. I’m interested in what’s going on here, that’s all, a little medical curiosity….” Trager wielded the large, scissor-like shears he had used to amputate Miles’ fingers, and positioned them near Waylon’s leg. Miles was about to jump into the room until he realized the shears were not positioned near Waylon’s fingers, but along his pants instead. Trager used the shears to cut away one leg of Waylon’s jeans, revealing the entire medical boot around Waylon’s fractured ankle.

Trager set the shears down on a dirty stainless, steel tray, and picked up a tiny, metal hammer and a long, pointed object resembling a knitting needle. Trager stared down at the boot and clicked his tongue. “A terrible design really. What happened, anyway? Little accident?” Miles could hear Waylon sniveling and breathing hard all the way from across the room, but Waylon kept his mouth shut. “Eh, doesn’t really matter. We’ll get you fixed right up.” Trager positioned the metallic needle against the side of the boot and carefully cracked the hammer down, driving the spike through the boot, into Waylon’s flesh and bone.

“Come on, buddy! We’re just getting started! Don’t pass out on me!”

Miles could hear Trager talking, and Waylon screaming behind him, as he rushed back into the large room. He began searching for something— _anything_ —to use against the mad doctor. Miles rifled through empty drawers, checked blood soaked trash cans, and attempted to pull apart a hospital bed. The noise aggravated some of the more conscious patients strapped to their respective beds.

“Miles,” said one of the patients, causing Miles to freeze in place. He slowly turned and faced a darkened corner. He approached, cautiously, camcorder at the ready, and stared down at the mutilated body found there. A sheet was covering most of the man’s torso, and part of his face was a mess of rough skin and uneven stitches. Still, Miles recognized him.

“David,” he said, shaking his head. “What…what happened…”

“I finally saw enough. I tried…I threatened to go to the press,” said David. His voice was weak. He struggled to keep his eyes open and focused on Miles. “They had me committed. My body rejected the therapy.”

“ _Fuck_ , I’m sorry man, I’m…” Miles’ speech was cut off by another bloodcurdling scream from behind him. “Look, that’s my friend. Waylon. Remember him? Trager has him, and I need to get him free, do you know where there’s a weapon, or something I could use?”

“You were always so supportive of Chris. I respected that,” said David, through chapped, bloody lips. “Not many people, even blood relatives, were as dedicated to the patients as you were.”

Miles frowned, torn between the desire to comfort his pained friend, or to rescue Waylon before more damage could be inflicted. “In the beginning, Chris was one of my favorites. I was pulling for him to be cured, especially after he survived the first round in the Engine. But they weren’t satisfied. Never satisfied. They put him in until there was nothing left to salvage. I think he could take it because he was so tough—not just his physical strength, he had so much to motivate him to get better—he had you. I couldn’t handle one single session. I don’t even know how many Chris endured before…”

“Look, David, I’m going to help you. I’ll get you out of here. But I need to help Waylon before something happens in there. Let me help you, let me get you off this table,” said Miles. He lifted up the sheet and immediately dropped it. A hand flew to his mouth to keep himself from screaming. Under the sheet, David’s body was opened with a giant Y-incision and some of his organs were on the outside of his body. Miles had no idea how he was even still alive. “Shit…”

“Chris has a new mission now. A mission to keep the Walrider from reaching the world,” said David.

“That’s a good mission, but it’s misguided, it’s based on a misunderstanding. The Walrider can be contained and controlled. Billy is a good host, he can…”

Another scream broke the silence and Miles started toward the door.

“Wait,” said David, his voice sounding strained and painful. “I’ll get his attention. Get ready to save your friend. Good luck. Get out of this place while you can. Chris is beyond your help now.”

Miles knew it was the truth. He had known it for some time. But it still made him hurt, and angry, to hear it from someone else’s lips. David was only trying to help. Miles crept toward the door. He watched as David used the last of his strength to struggle and thrash on his table, undoubtedly dislodging even more of his innards. Miles cringed at the thought and attempted to flatten himself against the wall. David’s noise rose in intensity, so loud that Miles did not hear Trager approaching through the door until he was already advancing on David, his large shears back in his hands.

As soon as Trager was deep into the other room, Miles dashed through the doorway. He rushed to Waylon’s side, and found him squeezing his eyes shut. Waylon’s face was wet with sweat, tears, and snot. Miles immediately began undoing the restraints on his wrist and then the other leather straps holding him down to the table. As soon as Waylon was free, Miles pulled him off of the table and supported him as he threatened to collapse.

“Don’t put pressure on the foot,” said Miles, glancing down and noticing the three metal pins stuck through the boot and the blood dripping freely from the open toe of the device. “Hold onto me. We’re getting out of here.”

Miles could hear David’s death howl from the room behind him. He rushed forward, Waylon doing his best to hop along while grunting from the pain of every movement. Miles pushed the back door open, and was met with a sign that pointed to the left with a symbol beside it representing an elevator. He felt renewed energy as he began trotting down the hall, holding his friend. “Elevator. Elevator! We’ve made it. We’re okay.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Waylon, grunting in pain with every jarring step.

“Fuck!” came a scream from behind them. “I knew I should have removed that foot outright, you slippery fucker…” The massive lead should have been enough, but Trager proved unexpectedly spry for an old guy. Waylon’s panic caused him to become even more unwieldy.

“There!” Miles said as he saw the elevator approaching, the light inside illuminating the dark room like a beam of light from heaven. Miles practically threw Waylon into the tiny, boxed off area and immediately began rifling through his pockets for the key. Waylon pulled himself toward the control panel and began smashing the ‘door close’ button again and again, growing increasingly frantic. Miles finally pulled out the key just as Trager reached the elevator and lunged inside, causing the key to slip out of Miles’ sweaty, mangled hands. “FUCK.”

Waylon was on the ground, pushing his hands around to feel for the key while simultaneously trying to avoid Miles and Trager’s feet as they tussled. Trager had momentum, and he used it to push Miles until he was slowly backing into the elevator’s wall, struggling to push back in his weakened state. Trager seemed unnaturally strong, or else Miles was unusually weak. Maybe both. The shears were making a slow forward movement, threatening to impale Miles through the stomach.

“Key!” said Waylon from the floor.

“Put it in the,” said Miles, cut off by an elbow into his chin.

“Buddy! You came back! Did you miss me? Don’t worry, you still have potential in this place, I’m not giving up on you!” said Trager. Miles was so focused on pushing Trager backwards that he did not realize Waylon had inserted the key and crawled until he was behind Trager’s knees. Miles rallied his strength and gave a final push forward, causing Trager to bump into Waylon and fall on his ass. Miles stepped over Waylon and kicked Trager out of the way of the elevator door.

“Turn it! Now! Hurry!” said Miles. Trager was already fighting to regain his feet, the shears having fallen and skidded out of reach. Waylon turned the key and resumed his violent button mashing.

“Close close close” he chanted, like a mantra. The doors finally responded, but Trager pushed himself through the doors and managed to get his shoulders, head, and one arm through. He lashed out wildly at the two men inside, but his reach fell short. The elevator lurched and began to move downward, causing Trager to rise up until his body was stuck, keeping the elevator from moving. The sound of gears grinding to a halt, and electricity crackling, were drowned out by a sickening scream from Trager. When the elevator finally ground to a stop, Trager was staring, lifeless, having been crushed completely by the doors and the ceiling.

Waylon continued to hit the close door button again and again. “Please, come on, please work, oh God, no, please…”

“You know,” said Miles as he backed up against the back wall of the elevator and slowly slid down into a seated position, “I read that those buttons do nothing. The close door buttons. They’re put there as placebos to let people feel in control, when really the doors just close on a predetermined timer.”

“Is that true?” asked Waylon, pausing his button mashing mission.

“It has to be. I read it on the Internet,” said Miles. Waylon snorted and shook his head.

“Don’t make me laugh. I can’t laugh right now. If I laugh I’m going to cry,” said Waylon, and his voice broke as though he would start to cry anyways. Miles sighed and kicked at the elevator door.

“Try pressing the fire button, maybe someone will come rescue us,” suggested Miles.

“More like every patient in this place will know there’s easy prey hanging out in this elevator,” hissed Waylon. Miles just shook his head.

“So close. We’ll never get down to Billy now. How’s your leg?” asked Miles.

“It fucking hurts,” said Waylon.

“Do you want me to try to do something about it? Pull those…pins…whatever, pull them out?”

“Don’t touch it, no,” said Waylon, his pale face somehow growing whiter. “I just, I need to get to a doctor. We need to get out.”

“We’re going to. I promise you, if we get out of this elevator, we get you to the nearest exit. I’ll get you out of here,” said Miles. Waylon nodded, and pulled his knees in, hugging them as he sat on the floor of the elevator. He pushed his head into his knees, but Miles could hear his soft whimpering.

“Come on now,” said Miles, crawling until he could put an arm around Waylon’s balled up figure. “I’m sorry I dragged you into this. I’ll do whatever it takes to make it up to you.”

“I just can’t believe…I can’t believe this is real?” scoffed Waylon. “People experimenting on people, giving a man like that any kind of authority to operate on people. He seemed to really enjoy making me scream.” Waylon leaned his head back against the back wall and sniffed loudly. “It hurt, but the fear was the worst. Not knowing when the next hit was coming. He…he was aiming the next one…up my nose…pointing upwards. I think he was going to lobotomize me…”

“Hey, it didn’t happen, though,” said Miles.

“Right,” said Waylon, and Miles watched as a tiny stream of blood began dripping from Waylon’s nose. Miles reached out and wiped the blood away, leaving a smear. “I never expected to see so much death and gore in person. I don’t even like horror movies…”

“The patient that saved us back there was David, you might remember him, the orderly who helped me with Chris,” said Miles. “He was dying in there. He probably got killed just to give us a distraction. I’m sorry you got hurt. Everyone here is hurting. We have to make this right. We have to get Billy. He can fix it. And I’ll get you out.”

Waylon gave a pitiful whine and leaned into Miles, burying his face against Miles’ jacket. “This is so horrible. I feel responsible.”

Miles gave a harsh bark that could have been a laugh if it weren’t so full of scorn. “No, if I can’t claim that, then you definitely can’t. You didn’t deserve any of this.”

“You were visiting me. That’s why you couldn’t protect Billy,” said Waylon, looking up with red rimmed eyes.

“Then blame Eddie for putting you in the hospital, not yourself,” said Miles. “That guy is no good. I don’t know why you put up with him treating you like that, because you’re the sweetest, most selfless person I know, and you deserve the best--not that guy. You should have been with me.”

“I’m sorry,” said Waylon, roughly wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve. “I’m sorry for everything. I shouldn’t have rushed into a relationship with Eddie. I just wanted to get out of that stalemate of wanting to be with you, and getting nowhere. I dated him to make you jealous, because I’m a selfish child. And then I got in too deep, and everything went wrong. I still loved you. I mean, I love you still. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

Miles sighed and reached out to squeeze Waylon’s hand. “I love you, too.”

“How like us that we need to be trapped by a corpse in an elevator to finally just talk it out,” said Waylon with a sigh. “Why can’t we do anything the way normal people do?”

“I don’t know,” said Miles, grinning despite everything. “After we’re out of here, we can figure it all out. I’ll talk to Billy, and you can meet him, and you will stay away from Eddie, and I’ll publish this story, and get famous, and we can all just live happily ever after…”

Waylon shook his head. “Even if we don’t get out of here, I’m glad at least I have you by my side.”

“Hey, don’t talk like…” Miles was silenced with a kiss. Waylon shifted and grunted as he moved his wounded leg. He put a hand on either side of Miles’ face and kissed him, soft and persistent. Miles lips parted in surprise and instinct took over. Kissing Waylon felt like the most natural thing in the world. Even with everything going to hell around them, Miles felt content with Waylon by his side. It was different than the thrill and attraction he felt to Billy, and the Walrider. It was a comfortable warmth. Miles kissed back, nipping at Waylon’s bottom lip, twisting his body so they could press closer together on the floor of the elevator.

Maybe it was because everything in the asylum was so horrible that any distraction was bliss, but the kiss felt better than anything in a long time. Miles could not resist the urge to put his hand on Waylon’ side, or slip his tongue between welcoming lips. He did not want to stop stealing Waylon’s every breath away. Because it was better than dealing with the terrible situation at hand. Because at least, while they were kissing, Waylon was not shaking in pain.

“At least we were together at the end,” Waylon said when their lips parted for a moment. He pressed forward again to resume the kiss, but Miles put a hand on Waylon’s chest and pushed him away.

“Wait, _no_. You’re not sitting here giving up, this isn’t over, this isn’t the end, you’re not saying goodbye to me right now,” said Miles, staring into Waylon’s eyes and seeing only sad defeat.

“If you say so,” said Waylon, giving a sad smile, before closing his eyes and leaning back in.

“No, I am serious. Fuck that. We’re getting out of here,” said Miles, pushing Waylon back harder than intended and causing him to wince in pain as he toppled backwards onto his bleeding leg.

“Then what are we going to do?” asked Waylon. “Wait for the fire department to come pull us out of this broken elevator? You want to call for help? You think the first person that finds us will want to help us, or murder us? Maybe you could get Chris to come give us a hand, he seemed _really keen_ on helping you earlier, assuming you were trying to have your head ripped off…”

A loud banging noise cut Waylon’s tirade short. Both men scrambled to their feet and into a corner. Waylon leaned heavily on Miles for support. There was another series of bangs and the visible portion of Trager’s corpse moved and changed before something was wedged in between the doors near his body. The instrument tore through Trager’s dead flesh with a sickening squelch before the doors opened enough to drop the carcass to the ground with a dull thump. Miles put himself in front of Waylon and stared through the elevator door, meeting one wide, lidless eye.

“Praise the Walrider, you’re alive!” said Gil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are 22 chapters. There are 2 chapters left, then the epilogue. I am updating as soon as they are finished, not withholding for any schedule, want to get it done, but done right :D


	20. Chosen One

In a matter of minutes, Gil and another patient had the door wrenched open, and they pulled Trager’s useless carcass out of the way. Miles frowned when he saw the condition of Gil’s accomplice. The patient had one leg completely transformed into a mess of tumors. Gil and Miles had to share Waylon’s weight as they walked, dragging him between them. Waylon leaned considerably closer to Miles to avoid getting too close to Gil’s cancerous face.

“Father Martin can help,” said Gil. “He has supplies, and men. We can get assistance—medicine for your friend, a wheelchair perhaps…”

“We don’t have time for a social visit,” said Miles. “This fiasco of a short cut is losing us precious time. The longer this goes on, the more chance something horrible is happening to Bil…the Host. The Walrider will not be pleased.”

“Of course, of course,” Gil said, nodding along with Miles’ demands. “His Will be done.”

It was useless to continue arguing his point. Miles walked in silence, attempting to minimize Waylon’s discomfort. After a few minutes, they arrived outside a room where two patients were standing out front, carrying candles, of all things. Miles read the plaque beside the double doors denoting it as the asylum’s chapel. Gil and the other patient were immediately welcomed by the guards who opened both doors wide, allowing their motley group to enter.

The chapel was sparsely decorated, but it did have the mandatory pews and an altar. A makeshift cross had been erected from what appeared to be pieces of destroyed plywood furniture. Miles found it odd that people claiming to worship a seemingly demonic entity would erect a Christian symbol. Several patients filled the pews—some watching, some bowing in prayer, and others rocking or gibbering to themselves. Miles and Gil carried Waylon down the center aisle until they met a weathered old man with quivering jowls and wide, glassy eyes. He was wearing what appeared to be a straight-jacket somehow dyed black and fashioned to resemble a priest’s vestments.

“Father Martin, this is the one I was telling you about, the Walrider’s Chosen One, the Apostle, and his friend. They seek passage below to embrace our Lord,” said Gil. He spoke with reverence and conviction, as though pronouncing a holy quest.

“Look. I know the host. The Walrider chose me for a purpose. I need to get down there. Immediately. No more delays,” said Miles. If the patients were going to talk like this was some epic quest movie, Miles would play along. Anything to get down to help Billy.

“Of course, of course, my son,” said Father Martin, speaking in a high, lofty tone. “You were sent here for a reason. It is true. Your friend is in pain. Allow me to make him more comfortable?” The fake priest produced a huge hypodermic needle that looked more like a horror movie prop than an actual medical instrument.

“No, you’re not touching him with that,” said Miles, starting to move between the priest and Waylon.

“It is a sedative. We’ve been injecting it to into our injured faithful, those so afflicted with pain they cannot focus on our true purpose. It would numb the area of affliction, but, unfortunately, it is temporary,” said Father Martin. “I offer this only as a gift. If your friend does not desire…”

“Give me the drugs,” said Waylon. Miles was conflicted, but Waylon’s forehead was clammy with cold sweat, the old injuries layered with new bruises, and his injured ankle was obviously bothering him terribly. Miles nodded first at Waylon and then at Father Martin. The injection caused Waylon to hiss in pain, but, as soon as the needle was withdrawn, the lines on his face already began to soften. “It’s working,” he said, lowering himself carefully into a wheelchair another patient had produced.

“Thank you. I’ll make sure the Walrider knows of your devotion,” said Miles. “Once the host has been set free, I’ll come back for all of you. Now, do you know of an elevator that we could use?”

“The main elevator is clear,” said Father Martin.

“No, Chris was there, keeping everyone inside,” said Miles.

“The Soldier has moved to other territories. We will show you to the elevator, and assist you with getting to the Walrider, but there is _one_ more thing you need to witness,” said Father Martin.

“We’ve wasted enough time already,” said Miles, feeling his anger rising. “We’re leaving.” He turned to storm out of the room and almost ran directly into two very tall, almost identical, naked sentinels. “Uh…” _Maintain eye contact_ , thought Miles. _Don’t look at their dicks. Don’t look at their dicks. Dammit_. Miles looked at their dicks.

Waylon settled into a wheelchair and gave a long sigh of relief. “We can spare a minute, but make it quick,” he said, filling in for Miles’ sudden loss of words.

“Yes, yes, of course,” said Father Martin, nodding so quickly his fleshy chin threatened to wobble off of his head. He walked down the center aisle toward the altar and a few candle toting followers huddled in closer.

“This is stupid,” said Miles, bending over to speak into Waylon’s ear without being overheard. It was difficult because Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dong were still hovering near. “We need to go—now. If that elevator is clear, we should walk down there, we should…” Miles slowly stopped talking as he noticed Waylon’s eyes going wide as saucers. “What?” Waylon shook his head, unable to form a verbal response.

Miles finally turned around in time to see Father Martin fully restrained on the ramshackle cross, and several of the followers pouring some type of liquid all over his body and the broken boards. The chapel reeked like a roadside truck stop, leading Miles to the conclusion that the liquid was accelerant.

“No! Father, the Walrider doesn’t want this, this isn’t something that needs to happen, step away with those candles fellas! Hey!” Miles’ words were lost on the fanatic crowd.

“You have a calling, Apostle,” said Father Martin from atop his cross, sagging against the restraints. “Go to Him, and leave this place—spread His message to the masses.”

“Okay but listen, Billy is just a guy, you’re confused, you are doing this for the wrong reasons. The Walrider is just a tool, it’s not a person, it’s not a god or a monster or anything, it’s science, it’s…”

Miles continued talking, no longer able to hear himself over the high pitched screaming originating from behind the altar. The believers had lit Father Martin on fire, and his body was writhing like a wisp of paper caught in a flame. Miles went silent and watched with morbid curiosity. The man sure screamed longer than he would have thought possible. It was obviously painful, but he never begged for mercy or water or help. Only screamed as though trying to summon the Devil himself. When he finally hung limp, his cries silenced, Miles wondered what had killed him. Had he passed out from shock until the flames cooked his insides? Suffocated by smoke inhalation? Had he managed to swallow fire as the flames licked ever higher, leaving his lungs smoldering like cigarette ashes? Miles was so absorbed with watching the carnage that he forgot about Waylon.

He turned in time to see Waylon staring straight ahead in his wheelchair. His eyes were open and the flames were reflected there, sharp specks of orange over his green irises. Waylon’s expression was blank; his eyes looked dead. Miles turned his back to the grotesque display and shook Waylon’s shoulders, gently. “Hey. Park. Hey!”

It took a few moments before Waylon’s eyes snapped to Miles’ face. He met Miles’ eyes and spoke in a calm tone. “I want to go home.” Miles nodded.

“Okay, we’ve seen enough. Thanks,” said Miles, shooting a glare at the naked sentinels. Gil was already behind Waylon’s wheelchair, pushing it toward the exit. The guards and all other believers parted easily before them as Miles led Waylon and Gil back out of the chapel.

“This way to the Walrider,” said Gil, his voice filled with unbridled joy. Apparently the sight of his religious leader burning to death had not affected his good mood. His deformed face was twisted into a childlike smile, and he actually giggled as he pushed the chair quickly through a myriad of hallways. Miles followed, relieved that they would finally reach their destination, but now the new worry of what exactly he would find in the lab settled into his stomach like a dinner of rocks. Gil led them toward the entrance way they had originally used to enter the asylum. He rushed toward the elevator, but Miles put his foot in front of the wheel and caused them to come to an abrupt stop. “Yes, Apostle?”

“Chris isn’t here?” asked Miles.

“The Soldier moved on some time ago, you’ve been detained for quite a while now…”

“I’m aware, okay, so Chris isn’t here. The car is right outside. Wheel Waylon out to his car. Make sure he gets in and drives away, safe,” said Miles.

“No,” said Waylon, turning an unnaturally calm face up toward Miles. “No. I stay. You don’t know what you will face down there. My leg doesn’t hurt so bad. If anything goes wrong, I’ll get back in the elevator and leave to get help.”

“You’re sure? I mean, the Morphogenic Engine is down there. That’s what turned all these patients into…well, it made them what they are today. You can walk away. Well, limp away. I want you to go. I want you safe. I _need_ you…”

“Then let’s go down to the lab,” said Waylon. He turned to look back at Gil standing behind the wheelchair and gave a final nod. “Let’s go.”

Miles sighed, tempted to physically throw Waylon out of the asylum, but he did not want to injure him further. “You are waiting with the elevator.”

The trio entered the elevator and used the same key as before. They listened as it clicked into place and the elevator began a lurching, downward motion. They descended what should have been several floors before there was a strange jolting stop, followed by the sensation of dropping— _quickly_. Falling, perhaps. “ _Shit_ ,” said Miles, gripping the sides of the elevator. Gil swayed uneasily, holding onto the jostling wheelchair with a smile on his face. Waylon had the same dead stare, seeming oblivious to the danger around him. Miles was shocked when the elevator decelerated, after what seemed an eternity, and came to a safe and complete stop. The doors opened with an anticlimactic _ding_.

The light that flooded the elevator was blinding after the relative darkness of the asylum. The walls were carved from the solid rock of the mountain, polished and uneven. Fluorescent bulbs shined down on them from the ceiling, reminding Miles of having a bright light shined in his face at the dentist’s office. He actually missed the dark upstairs. At least then he had been able to hide. He felt exposed.

Miles led the way out of the elevator and waited for Gil and Waylon to catch up. “Where’s the Engine?” asked Waylon, his voice echoing off the stone walls. Miles flinched at the sound and looked around, worried about the noise attracting some aggressive patients, or worse. When nothing happened, Miles relaxed slightly.

“I don’t know,” said Miles, keeping his voice just above a whisper to avoid the echo. “I’ll go and check it out. You two want to stay here by the elevator? If there’s any trouble in there, I’ll run right back.”

“No,” said Waylon, standing up from the chair. The sedative had dulled his pain enough that he could put weight on the leg, though he grimaced with each step. Miles could see a trickle of thick, congealed blood dribbling from the holes in Waylon’s medical boot.

“Feels like pins and needles, like my foot fell asleep,” said Waylon.

“Pins and needles? Sure you don’t want to rephrase that?” asked Miles. Waylon shrugged. Gil kept close behind the other two as they started walking, slowly, down the glowing hallway. There were rooms on either side of the corridor that reminded Miles of the chemistry lab at college. The only difference were the interspersed piles of human remains reduced to chunky puddles of blood and bile. “Billy’s close.”

“This is his work then?” asked Waylon, staring down at a murky puddle associated with a huge blast radius of blood splatter.

“Uh, yeah,” said Miles, with a long sigh. “This is how the Walrider kills. I don’t know the mechanics of it, but I saw Billy do it once out in the pasture, protecting his cows. I also watched the Walrider murder a guard the day Billy turned himself in.”

“So your new boyfriend is a murderer?” asked Waylon, his voice not sounding as shocked as it should have, considering the question.

“No. I mean, not really? The dog was a mistake…”

“Dog?”

“Yeah, Puddles, that was a judgment error, and the guard was basically self defense…”

“And all the corpses down here? Judgment errors or self defense?” asked Waylon.

“Look, if you want to go back, take the elevator up and walk out the front door. Take Gil. I’m sorry. I know this is all my fault for bringing you here, and getting you hurt, and almost killed, but I am going into this Engine room, and I am bringing Billy home.”

“And you’re sure there’s no chance he’s going to do that to you? To me? To Gil?” asked Waylon. Miles paused, scrunching up his face as he thought.

“I hadn’t considered it. Probably not. You know what, you stay back. Let me go and talk to him. Then we can all get out of here,” said Miles. He began to stalk off down the hallway, alone, leaving Waylon staring blankly into some kind of office splattered with blood and brains. Gil was standing behind him, still holding the wheelchair though it was not being used. Miles huffed as he quickened his pace.

Waylon’s disposition made Miles feel uneasy. He had never seen his friend so despondent and disturbed in their time together. Even when they had visited the asylum and heard bad news after bad news. Even when pulling Miles off of the roof, or picking him up from some gutter he had drank himself into. Waylon had never looked as hopeless as he did when Miles glanced behind him, one final time, before the hallway made a sharp turn. Around the bend, Miles was met with darkness.

It was jarring to go from such bright light into complete darkness—the kind of darkness you could only find in the middle of the earth with no electricity. The weight of the mountain suddenly seemed oppressive, settling on his shoulders. Miles pulled out his camcorder and held it up, using the night vision setting to make his way around crates and more splattered remains. He was growing used to the smell and sight of death. Desensitized. Surely, no amount of blood would ever bother him again for as long as he lived. He had waded through so much already in his short life. Miles was lost in thought when an alarm began blaring overhead and a red siren light began swirling around.

Miles spun, pointing the camera in all directions. He couldn’t see anything except for more blackness. He stumbled into a row of barrels. When he finally held the camera back up, he saw something. It resembled smoke coming up front under the gap in a closed door, but soon coalesced into a more physical shape, eventually taking on a humanoid appearance that Miles recognized.

“ _Billy_ ,” said Miles, and the Walrider immediately flew to his side. The feeling of hands, limbs, tendrils, all manner of appendages, pushed through his hair. “Whoa whoa, careful,” he said as a particularly enthusiastic stroke threatened to knock him to the dirty ground. “I missed you too, but damn…” Miles laughed as the petting continued. “I think I know how a puppy feels in the hand of an over enthusiastic toddler. Listen. I’m here to help. I’m getting you out of here. I came for you.”

The Walrider nuzzled its head against Miles’ neck and made a humming static noise Miles couldn’t help comparing to a kitten’s purr. Miles reached a hand around and pat the swarm on what would be its back if it had one. The gesture only seemed to encourage it, and Miles felt new appendages curling around his thighs, stroking down his chest, and even one tugging at the fly of his jeans. “Whoa, okay, bad timing, I need to get you out of here first…” But the Walrider remained willfully ignorant of Miles’ complaints, caressing Miles as it pleased, ignoring any attempts to bat the tendrils away. “I’m serious…” Miles was interrupted when he began laughing uncontrollably. “ _Quit_ , dammit, that tickles…”

A shrill scream from the far end of the hallway echoed off the carved stone walls. Miles began to run, but the Walrider was faster. It took off down the hallway, gripping Miles’ arms. When Miles finally gave up trying to run fast enough to stay upright, the Walrider carried him the rest of the way. They flew around a corner and were greeted with a horrible sight. The wheelchair was overturned, Waylon was on the ground, crawling away from Chris. Miles ex-boyfriend stood tall with his hands around Gil’s throat as the man struggled in his lethal grip.

Chris’ damage was worse than Miles had been able to ascertain in the dim lighting upstairs. The wounds on his chest seemed recent, still shiny and healing. His face was a mess of scabs and oozing scratches. Whatever the doctors at Mount Massive had done, it had not stopped Chris’ self-harming compulsions in the least. If anything, it still looked like he was actively making himself worse. His mangled claws were tightening around Gil’s malformed neck as they rounded the corner.

“No! Chris, drop him!” said Miles. Gil’s one remaining eye looked ready to pop out of his skull as he stared past Miles—gazing at the Walrider.

“My…Lord…” Gil somehow managed to gurgle out, before his head was forced from his neck with a loud snap.

“Chris, please, don’t you remember me? I want to help you. I only want to help you,” said Miles, reaching out toward Chris even as he took two heavy steps toward Miles. “ _Please…_ ”

Before Chris was within striking distance of Miles, the Walrider picked him up as easily as one might lift a wet towel. The swarm swung Chris’ massive frame and then pulled him up toward a vent in the ceiling. The duct was covered by a mesh grate. The Walrider was able to dissipate and move through the grate as easily as if it was nothing at all. Chris could not. It was like sending his entire body through a wood chipper in a matter of seconds. Blood and meaty chunks showered down on Miles as he froze.

For a minute, Miles could have sworn he was back in the car, upside down in a ditch, staring at the bloody pulp that had once been his father’s head. He held up his damaged hands and saw that every inch was coated with gore, as if he had purposely bathed in the stuff. Somewhere in the mess, Gil’s headless body was resting. No one deserved to die that way. Did Gil also have family that missed him? Parents, a significant other, or even children? The sound of loud vomiting behind him snapped Miles back to reality.

Waylon was curled in a call, unable to even raise his head as he puked. Miles walked over, deceptively calm, and gently lifted Waylon up to keep his face out of his own mess. Not that a little vomit could do much damage considering Waylon was as covered as Miles with Chris’ remains. Miles stood up, dragging Waylon up with him, and practically slung him over his shoulder. He had to get away from the blood and bile. Miles carefully set Waylon down before collapsing himself onto the floor.

“That…that thing…that _demon_ was Billy? That’s what we came to save?”

“That’s the Walrider. It’s something inside of Billy, that he can control. It’s tiny robots…”

“Whatever,” said Waylon, his voice sounding lifeless. “It doesn’t matter. We’re here. Let’s just do this and get home.”

Miles heard what Waylon said, but it sounded like it was coming through a bad radio reception. The words were broken up, static whooshing in between pauses, and his voice sounded tiny--distant...

Miles… _Miles_ …

Was Waylon calling his name, or was he imagining it? He looked up and saw scared green eyes trained on his own. “Miles?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“Are you alright?” asked Waylon before it seemed to dawn on him the reality of what had just happened. He stared down at his own crimson hand. “I know…I know Chris was sick but, I know what he meant to you. You did everything you could…”

“Maybe you should go up the elevator. Just, run to the car. Get out of here.”

“You’re trying to quit, now? I’m sorry about Chris, but you’re... _we’re_ so close, let’s just go and get that monster thing, and he can pick up Billy, then he can get us out of here…”

“The Walrider is controlled by Billy. We can’t get his cooperation out of this place without Billy. At least, I don’t think so? I don’t know the specifics on how far the swarm can get without Billy, I never thought to ask I suppose…”

“Then let’s go get Billy,” said Waylon. Miles stared over at him, pale skin hidden by smears of brownish red. His blond hair was dripping with it. Miles reached out and brushed a chunk of organic material out of Waylon’s hair, not wanting to bother trying to identify it.

“People that are close to me, they end up horribly hurt. You need to go away. Save yourself.”

“You are being so stupid and dramatic right now,” said Waylon, frowning in irritation. He put his hand against the wall and struggled to get himself to his feet. He leaned away from the sedated leg and glared down at Miles. “You tried to save Chris, but you were outnumbered and the law wasn’t on your side. You came to rescue Billy, you didn’t know the patients were running the asylum. My ankle’s destroyed and I’m covered in someone else’s blood, but if I have to go and help Billy myself I will because you’re not a failure in this. You didn’t fail. If anything, you fought on, against the worst kind of odds available to a man. You’re stronger than you think. Now get up.”

Miles sighed as he stood up, putting an arm around Waylon’s waist. He supported Waylon as they walked around the bend, into the dark hallway, and down to two double doors. No sirens sounded, and the Walrider did not materialize. Miles held up his camcorder and used the night vision feature just to be sure. They were alone in the suffocating darkness. Soon the large set of double doors was in front of them. Miles pushed them open. He Helped Waylon through, before stopping in his tracks to stare up in awe.

“What the fuck is that,” asked Waylon, reverence in his tone.

“The Morphogenic Engine, I presume?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next one is the last one, and an epilogue follows.


	21. Manual Override

Flashing lights, winking in the distance like shy stars. The huge metal sphere with its stray spots of light reminded Miles of some rudimentary planetarium projecting constellations onto the walls. The many cables running to and from the contraption ruined the illusion, reminding him that this was more like an evil, alien brain than anything as mystifying as the heavens. This machine was definitely from Hell.

Miles moved closer to the nightmare contraption and noticed a large supercomputer at the base. Projectors played that damned black and white imagery. Large spheres were somehow connected to the machine, but Miles could not determine their exact purpose-if any. He had to get closer. He had to find Billy.

Waylon was immediately distracted by the large amount of computer consoles on the raised level above the Engine room's floor. His fingers were working at the speed of sound and Miles briefly wondered how he would ever type again. "I have to find Billy. He's got to be around here somewhere," said Miles, though Waylon did not even turn away from the computer screen.

"You go and look for Billy. I am going to see what I can find out here, then come down to find you," said Waylon, clicking away with the mouse.

"If you hear anyone coming down that hallway, or if you see the Walrider, run down to find me—scream. Don't try to talk to anyone—don't approach the swarm. I want to think it wouldn't kill you, but I have no real way of knowing that."

"Stay away from scary ghost demon that disintegrates people," said Waylon, his tone flat as his eyes darted across the screen. "Don't need to tell me twice."

Miles quickly descended a short set of metal stairs to reach the Morphogenic Engine. He was careful to keep his eyes from focusing on the strange images for too long. He remembered how he had lost an afternoon within the shifting shapes. Even without focusing on the screen, his peripheral vision seemed to pick up images that made him want to turn and stare. A car upside down. A sink filled with blood. A burning man. None of the images were as bad as what he saw next.

Miles' body threatened to collapse, as though the weariness of the past days finally hit him all in one wave. The glass spheres were connected to the Engine. Most were empty, but one was filled with a clear liquid. A man was suspended from tubes with his limbs restrained behind him forcing him into an unnatural position in the strange sphere. Miles did not recognize him until he looked much closer.

Where were his glasses? The murky water in the sphere turned his dark, ocean blue eyes cloudy and pale. He stared away, unblinking. Why had they shaved off his gorgeous black hair with its silvery highlights? He was only twenty one, but he suddenly looked like a man three decades older. Was the water causing his skin to wrinkle and crease, or was that some other side effect of the Engine? And then there were the tubes. The scars that Miles had seen, touched. Kissed. They were reopened with large tubes shoved deep into Billy's torso. The clear tubing ran red with blood.

Miles pressed his face to the glass sphere and slapped his palm against the cool surface. There was no change from the lifeless face floating in the sphere, large tubes forced down his throat and up his nose. Miles grimaced and attempted to claw at the glass, his bloody hands squeaking as they left a smear on the surface. Why? How? Miles thoughts ran a thousand miles an hour as he attempted to make sense of the situation, and keep his emotions in check.

Billy had put himself in that terrible position in an effort to protect him. Miles had no idea how Murkoff had even managed to get Billy into the seamless sphere, nor how the Walrider was free, roaming the asylum grounds. Miles sniffed and wiped his face on the sleeve of his jacket, leaving a smear of blood than tears. Crying? That solved nothing. Miles set his jaw and stormed back toward the raised area where Waylon was working. The only thing that mattered was getting Billy out of the nightmare machine, and back into his arms.

Miles stomped up the stairs and stalked to where Waylon was sitting, no longer typing, just reading. His expression was frightened when he saw Miles.

"I found Billy," said Miles, struggling to keep his voice calm. "He's trapped in the Engine—as I suspected. We have to get him out."

"Okay, but Miles, I need you to understand something…"

"He's in that sphere. Right there," said Miles, pointing with his shortened right index finger. "We found him. Now, we just need to get him out."

"Miles, please, you don't understand…"

"Forget this computer, come down and help me…"

" **Miles**. Listen. I found some protocols, some instructions on how to shutdown the Engine, there are…fail-safes, upon fail-safes, to ensure nothing can disrupt the Engine. It'll take some manual overriding. I know I can do it—I know I can shut it off. But Miles…" The pained look on Waylon's blood covered face told Miles all he needed to know.

"Say it."

"I…" Waylon's voice cracked and he took a moment to find it again. "I don't know how to get him out of there…alive."

Miles walked away from where Waylon was sitting. He approached a row of computers and other tech, raised his foot up to chest height and kicked straight into the machinery. The sounds of thousands of dollars worth of equipment breaking on the hard ground still did not manage to quell his rage. Miles ran his arm across the surface, knocking the rest of the equipment down as well. He put his palms flat on the table and took a few deep breaths. Losing it wouldn't help anyone. "Look again," he muttered through clenched teeth.

"I'm still looking, but…"

"The patients that were in the Engine before, they're out and walking around, _I know it's possible_ …"

"Yeah, it probably is, but all of the people that knew how to do that are _splattered against the walls_ out there. We haven't seen a single living person on this level, Gil was murdered, do you think any of the other patients were even cognizant enough to know how they got in and out of the machine?" Waylon frowned and Miles did not answer, though they both knew it was the truth. "I can figure out the tech, I can release him from the machine, but once he's out…"

Miles walked back over to where Waylon was sitting. His friend cowered slightly in his chair, tensing up. Miles immediately paused in his movements and placed a gentle hand on Waylon's shoulder. "I'm upset, but I would never hurt you."

None of the tension left Waylon's body. He had likely heard that before. Probably seconds before a strike. Miles brushed a tacky strand of blood soaked hair back behind Waylon's ear. "I promise. Never."

After Waylon gave a slight nod, Miles looked at the computer screen. There were several windows open and most were code Miles had no hope of deciphering, but there were others partially concealed. Miles leaned down and grabbed the mouse, clicking on one of the pictures. It was a close up of Billy's face. Miles realized it was a video and pressed play. He watched as a sluggish, probably drugged, Billy tossed his head with large tubes shoved down his throat. He flailed and fought for a few moments before finally sinking into a coma state, his eyes staring open—the same way Miles had encountered him in the nearby sphere.

There was another video open behind it. Miles clicked on it, not knowing why. He was sure he would not like any of the files. He found himself staring at a close circuit recording of a small room. Billy was standing there along with armed guards, Jeremy Blaire, and one conspicuous puddle of guts. It was the day Billy surrendered himself to Murkoff—Miles could tell by the clothes he wore. Billy looked so handsome, even in the grainy video. Miles leaned closer to the screen, glued to the recording.

"You were right," said Waylon quietly from his seat as he watched along with Miles. "He's hot."

"Approaching the door," came a crackled voice, originating from the handheld radio in Jeremy's hand. "Alright Billy," said Jeremy in the video. He was not holding up the radio, but it was still on. Miles knew because he remembered the words that were spoken next. "Submit, or Mr. Upshur's about to become a stain…"

Billy looked calmly at Jeremy Blaire and held his hand out. Jeremy paused for a brief moment before shrugging and offering the radio to Billy. He held it up to his mouth and said the words Miles heard over and over again in his mind. "Drive away, Miles. Goodbye. I love you."

No sooner were the words spoken than the guards converged on Billy, one stabbing his neck with a large needle, similar to the horrendous device Father Martin had obtained, and the other restraining his arms behind his back. The radio clattered to the floor. There was some static disturbance over the film. The Walrider was likely fighting back. The video was suddenly obscured for several seconds as strange, green gas flooded the room. When the cloud finally cleared, Billy was hanging, unconscious, between the two guards.

Jeremy picked up the radio. "If you come back, I will kill him—and you. If you release a report about my company, I will kill him. He was willing to gamble his life on you. Are you going to throw his away?" Jeremy smirked at the radio in his hand before switching it off and discarding it. "Alright, get him out of here," he said, directing the two guards. "The gas and injection worked, but we have to get him into the Engine—immediately."

"That will take a considerable amount of time, won't it…" questioned one of the guards.

"Tell them to make it happen—no delay. This kid has a killer robot locked inside of him, and unless we get him locked safely in the Engine, we have no control over him."

"The Engine…the Engine will be able to control it?" questioned the other guard.

"That's the idea. It didn't work before, but we've perfected it. He will be quite malleable," said Jeremy.

"What about the reporter, though? Don't you think he'll just go to the press, or the authorities?"

"No," said Jeremy, smirking in the grainy video. "I know Mr. Upshur. He'll be back. He thinks he can outsmart us. He overestimates his abilities." Miles sneered at the screen. He wasn't sure if he was more upset that Jeremy was trash talking him—or that he had been right.

"So, what do we do if he does come back?" asked a guard.

"Tell all the guards—shoot on sight. We have a restraining order, and a documented history of his aggression toward our employees. There won't be any questions asked."

Miles exited the video and scowled at the machine. He continued to look in the folder that Waylon had accessed and saw several dates from the recent past on different video files. "Not sure 'perfected' was the right word to use there, Jer," said Miles, to the computer. "There has to be a way to get Billy out. Maybe the Walrider can get him out?"

"Don't you think if the Walrider could free Billy, it would have already?" asked Waylon.

"Maybe. Unless it's more sentient than people give it credit. Maybe it likes running free without having to listen to its host," said Miles. He clicked on one of the random files in the folder and a video came up showing Billy outside of his home. "Surveillance. That's how they knew. Shit, probably followed me as soon as I left Denver."

"Why would you go and visit Blaire anyways?" asked Waylon.

"I always thought if I had the upper hand on him, he would bow down, rather than risk an information leak that could destroy his company. I knew if I was right…if Murkoff was abusing patients, then there were other victims, but…I didn't care about them. Only Chris. If I had Jeremy nervous, I could use the leverage to get Chris transferred. Sent somewhere better. I thought just the mention of Project Walrider might be the key, but it wasn't. He just stared me down with those…dead eyes. Hate that bastard. I hope one of the blood splatters out in the hallway was him."

Miles clicked on a few other random videos, scrolling down. He saw Billy tending his cows. Hauling feed with his unnatural strength. Wernicke had thought they were being careful, but Billy was not discreet at all. The file at the bottom of the list caught his eye because it had been renamed from a generic date to say "Watchme." No sooner had Miles opened the file than he wished he hadn't. He attempted to exit out but Waylon pushed his shoulder in front of Miles, blocking him from the mouse.

"Hmm. What's going on there?" asked Waylon. The video played on, showing Billy backed up against a hay bale, and Miles on his knees.

"I, uh, dropped something," said Miles.

"Yeah, Billy's pants," said Waylon, snorting. "Look at you, making another sex tape without me."

"Hey, this one was against my will," said Miles. At least the disgusting blood coating his skin hid his blush. He stared at the video and felt a profound sadness. "We have to get him out. We have to try. Keep looking around. Maybe there's some instructions we could follow. It's a long shot, but we have to try. I owe him that."

Waylon hunched back over the keys and began working quickly, searching for files that could be useful. Miles paced uselessly, or stared down at Billy's sphere. "I wish there was a way to summon the Walrider."

"Hmm, should have asked Father Martin," said Waylon without looking up.

"You can drop the title, I'm pretty sure that guy wasn't really a priest," said Miles. He stalked around, looking at notes and documents, but none of them were helpful. Only a couple of minutes had passed when they heard a noise echoing from the hallway. "Keep looking," said Miles. He rushed over to the double doors and pushed his way out into the pitch black hallway.

Using his night vision, Miles navigated to the edge of the blackness, staying hidden while zooming in as far as possible to see who had entered the hallway. He hoped to see a scientist, rushing down into the lab—someone that could help Billy. He suspected he would see a patient that had stumbled upon the lab in their attempt to escape the slaughter—or in search of prey to continue it. He was not expecting two heavily armed men in riot gear brandishing semi-automatic weapons.

Finally, help had arrived. Were they the police? The national guard? They would get the situation under control and find someone who could save Billy.

"We have blood. No sign of life," said one one of the men. They appeared identical in their body armor and full-coverage helmets.

" _Be advised, the swarm is most active near the Engine. It's necessary to shut it down to end the swarm_ ," came an authoritative voice over the radio.

"Hey," shouted Miles, immediately drawing the men's' attention and having two weapons honed in on his location. He ducked, even though he was in the darkness. Maybe those masks had heat vision for all he knew. "I'm unarmed! I'm not a patient! I want to help you. We need to shut down the Engine. It's this way."

The response was a barrage of bullets that Miles could hear striking into barrels and ricocheting off of the rough stone walls. He dropped to the ground and immediately wished he had not because he was face down in someone's remains. Better to land in the mess than add to it, he decided.

"Shots fired. No visual," said one of the men.

Then there was a sound, like the buzzing of an angry hornet's nest. Miles knew what that meant and he jumped to his feet. "Wait, stop, they can help! They are here to help with the machine."

More bullets. "Visual on the swarm, I repeat, visual on the swarm," said the first man before he was picked up by his feet and slammed into the wall hard enough that his helmet flew off, taking his head with it, and leaving behind a bleeding stump.

"Back up! We need back up! Rogers is down, I repeat, Rogers…" the report was cut short when the man began screaming at the top of his lungs. The sound stopped after the Walrider turned him into a puddle of bio-waste.

Miles stood up and started jogging toward the Walrider. "Hey," he shouted at the swarm. It hovered in the air, its shape constantly in flux between a humanoid figure and an amorphous cloud of mist. " **Hey**. I know you can hear me. Help Billy. He needs you help, you need to help Billy." The swarm started to move toward Miles before halting and disappearing into a vent. "Come back!"

Miles stared blankly into the empty hallway where the Walrider had hovered. He could not begin to divine what motivated the swarm.

"Miles! Are you okay?! MILES!"

He quickly jogged back to the Morphogenic Engine room. Waylon met him at the door, wringing his hands with worry. "What was that? What happened?"

"Change of plan, we have to get Billy out— _now_ ," said Miles.

"Okay well, I know how to shut down the life support…"

"Wernicke said something about overriding the system. He said it was the only way to get Billy out, if he was already locked in an operational instance of the Morphogenic Engine."

"Exactly," said Waylon, pushing a hand through his hair, causing it to stand almost straight up due to the blood making it tacky. "I can do it, but I don't know what will happen. I don't know how to get Billy out. If the sphere opens, I don't know how to disconnect him, I don't…"

"Well there's armed men coming down here, and the Walrider isn't reliable. I have no idea who, or what, is controlling it, if anything, and it destroyed two armed men out there, but they called for backup, and the swarm vanished, so we're operating alone down here. They're on their way to shut down the Engine. If they do, they won't bother to save Billy. He told me once he would rather be dead than suffer this again. We have to try," said Miles. He took a deep breath and reached down to squeeze Waylon's hand, ignoring the sticky feeling of blood. "It has to be us. And it has to be now."

Waylon nodded and quickly pushed up on his toes to kiss Miles. It caught Miles off guard and he blinked a couple of times to refocus on the task at hand. "Sorry," said Waylon. "I just know you're about to get your boyfriend back, and he probably wouldn't want me doing that once he's awake." Waylon pulled his hand free from Miles and walked away, managing to hobble down the stairs and around the corner, out of sight.

Miles wandered back over to the sphere and pressed his forehead to the glass. He kept one ear strained toward the hallway, expecting the sound of loud footsteps approaching at any moment. Before long, something moved in the reflection on the sphere. Miles turned around to see a blood covered Waylon jogging with a limp. He was breathing heavy when he stopped beside Miles.

"Is that Billy?" asked Waylon between his panting.

"Yeah," said Miles. A sad smile turned up one corner of his mouth as he wiped his eyes. "That's him. He had really great hair. Thick, wavy, nice to hold onto. Stuck out of his cowboy hat."

"Cowboy hat? Please tell me he's not a stripper," said Waylon. Miles shook with silent laughter as he put up one hand to the surface of the glass orb, caressing it like it was a warm cheek.

"No, I guess he is an actual cowboy. He takes care of cows," said Miles, staring through the glass where Billy's cloudy eyes were rolled back in his head. "He took care of his grandfather. He ran a ranch, even though he was so young. No matter how many times I corrected him, he kept calling me _mister_. Even when we were getting hot."

"I'm sure you hated that," said Waylon with a flat stare.

"He's too good for me. Everyone I love suffers some horrible fate, each one getting more horrendous than the last. I'm some kind of walking curse," said Miles, his voice going soft as he felt as though his chest were squeezing in on itself. "I'd do anything to take his place."

"Everything's ready, there's just the button there," said Waylon. Miles turned around and saw him pointing at a blinking outline of a hand.

"Wonder if mine will even work," muttered Miles, frowning at his new stumps. "What will happen?"

"I don't know," said Waylon. Miles took a deep breath and let it out slowly. A sound like thunder suddenly sounded in the hallway. "I can try to barricade off the doors…"

"No, stay back, we have to try to get Billy out," said Miles as he dashed to the Engine. He held his hand over the button and hovered for a few moments, gathering his courage, before… "I'm getting you out, Billy."

Sirens. Beeping. Chaos.

Miles turned and stared in horror as Billy's body began to thrash inside of the orb. "Oh, God, Billy! No!" Miles pressed himself against the glass. How could he open it? He desperately wiped away tears only to have new ones take their place. He had to be there for Billy.

The cords and tubes became tangled and tied as Billy thrashed, fighting even though his arms were suspended behind his back. His cloudy eyes seemed to be darting around, unable to focus. "I'm sorry, Billy," said Miles, his voice catching in his throat when he noticed that one of the large cords had finally pulled free and the bulb was quickly filling up with dark, red blood. "No! Shit, no," he screamed, hammering his fist against the glass with little thought for his wounded hands.

Suddenly, Miles was pulled away, violently. The Walrider hovered before him in its humanoid form. It grabbed him by his shoulders and lifted him into the air. "Where were you _asshole_?! Why don't you do something? Why can't you save him?" The swarm dropped Miles, leaving him to land with a dull thud and a loud groan. "You liked it, didn't you?" The question came out as a groan as Miles struggled to lift his head from the stone floor. "You liked having your host in there, unable to make his own decisions, unable to fight anything. Were you able to hear his cries for help? Follow his commands? Or are you completely on you own, now?"

There was no answer, and Miles had not expected one. He felt his foot pulled and his body dragged easily across the floor before he was thrown against the glass sphere, now murky with Billy's blood. Miles could just make out the shadow of a human form that would be Billy. "He's **dying** in there! _Do something_!"

The Walrider cocked its humanoid head for a moment before reaching forward with its hand. The hazy appendage seemed to phase through Miles' skin and directly into his body. There was a pain like a stabbing, internal injury. The type of pain he had known after the terrible accident that had claimed both of his parents. Miles attempted to double over from the pain, but the Walrider was still holding him upright. He watched in horror as the swarm shifted and became less solid and continued to pour into his body. It reminded Miles of someone exhaling a long drag from a cigarette, only in reverse.

Miles screamed and it came out as a sound like a metallic howl. He clutched his middle, feeling a new weight settle inside. There was a taste like licking a battery, and a sound like the hum of an electrical transformer powering a giant city. The noise filled his senses until he was vibrating, his vision blurry.

" _Miles_?" came a voice through the static. Miles opened his eyes, but it took great effort, as though he were fighting his body's desire to keep his eyes squeezed shut. If he couldn't see, it wasn't real. "Oh, God…what's happening? Miles! Are you okay?"

Miles attempted to answer, but when he opened his mouth he immediately choked on a stream of tar-like vomit leaking out, causing him to gag violently. His heartbeat in his ears sounded unreal, too loud—too strong. His vision was blurring and when he wiped his eye he discovered more of the same sticky, black substance running from the corners of his eyes. More dripped from his nose. Miles suspected it dripped from all of his orifices, but he did not wish to test that theory. Instead, he tested another. Miles balled up one fist and slammed it into the ground.

"Fuck! How are you doing that," squealed Waylon, scrambling away from the impact. "Are you…are you the Walrider now?!"

The pain was severe. Miles howled, a tinny, echoic noise, and he clutched his likely broken hand to his chest. But the concrete ground was broken in a circulate shape that reached out from his impact point like the threads in a spider's web. Miles looked at the crimson orb and directed another blow.

It took several tries, even with his new immense strength, to finally crack the glass orb enough that it began to leak thick fluid mixed with dark blood. The final blow caused half of the orb to shatter like a broken egg, and it left Miles seeing white from the blinding pain. The sphere burst open, a twisted womb, spewing afterbirth all over the laboratory floor. The disgusting mixture of liquid coated Miles' body and clung to his clothes and skin.

Miles ignored the pain and stumbled over to where Billy hung, still attached by all of the wires. His body was white and limp, completely bled out. Waylon was by Miles' side in an instant, attempting to untangle the cords and wires until they had lowered Billy to the blood soaked floor.

"The hallway. Whoever is coming there's a lot of them. I can hear them, it's echoing, they could get inside any minute…"

"Keep yourself out of sight. They know there's one person here, that's all," said Miles. He pulled the limp body into his lap. He pressed his hands uselessly to the gaping wound directly below Billy's still heart. He wanted to cry, but his body hardly felt like his own at that moment. Wernicke was right. The Walrider had wanted to keep Miles near because it had calculated the possibility of needing an alternative host. The Walrider had finally come to claim all of him. Miles hardly cared in that moment. He stared down at Billy, his body shaking with quiet sobs. Waylon's hand on his shoulder pulled him to the present.

"He's…he can't be… _why_ ," Miles croaked out, his voice sounding like his vocal cords had been shredded by a million nanites—and possibly they had. "He's dying."

"You're not," grunted Waylon. "Billy knew there were risks when he took your place. He didn't want you to die, Miles, you did everything you could. Look what you fought through just to get here and end his suffering…"

Miles made no indication that he had heard Waylon. He merely dropped his chin back to stare at Billy's chest making the last few weak attempts to move, though whether from any remaining life or some random spasms, Miles could not know. "Heal him," whispered Miles, staring at the wet, pale remains of the boy he had known. "Heal him. You healed that, goddamn, old, disgusting man for decades past his expiration date. So now you can heal Billy! He's young, healthy—he's a good host! He could be the new backup plan. _Please_."

Inadvisable. Healing required nanites and, at that moment, they could spare none. Between healing the considerable damage the new host had done to its body, and the danger approaching from the corridor, exerting any additional resources towards healing a fallen host was a poor allocation of assets. There was an appropriate time to move on from a host, namely when maintaining the host became more costly than moving to a new host. It was a complicated procedure, but necessary for continued existence. There was no logical reason to heal the broken host when there was a perfect new host on hand, and even another backup.

Thoughts. Thoughts that were not his own, but they were his own-they came from his own brain. " _Fuck you_ ," said Miles, to himself. "If we're in this together, we make decisions together, and I say we _heal Billy_ …"

Miles glanced up and saw Waylon, watching in horror as he conversed with himself. "Miles…" he squeaked, pulling into a tighter ball. Voice elevated. Pulse rapid. Not like it took machine level observation to know Waylon was afraid.

"Don't be afraid," said Miles, his voice hoarse. He erupted into a fit of coughs, holding his hand against his face and coming away with more of the black gunk. "Hide behind the sphere."

"Not without you," said Waylon, shaking his head.

Fool backup. A tendril flew out and encircled Waylon's ankle, dragging him behind an unused sphere. Miles reached down and picked up Billy's form, naked save for the soaked shorts the scientists had allotted him. His body was cool and it easily slid into his arms. Miles cradled him close to his body, as he moved him out of the line of sight from the door. Billy's eyes were half open, staring. "You protected me. I just wish I could do the same for you." And though he did not understand it, and Billy did not move, Miles knew he approved. There was something of himself left there, and Miles set him down gently. He placed a light kiss to Billy's shaved head, ignoring the clinging slime. "I'm going to get you out of here. Just hold on."

Miles stood tall and slowly ascended the stairs as the double doors flew open and the sound of heavy stomping filled the cavernous room. The men were dressed identical to the armored men Miles had observed in the hallway before, except there were at least a dozen of them. The first into the room knelt down and aimed at Miles, followed by a second row that hovered over their heads and aimed as well. The men in the middle parted slightly to make room for a suited figure.

"Mr. Upshur. Or is it still Ferguson?"

"Call me whatever you want, Satan."

Jeremy squinted his eyes as he stared as he stared at the room. "Manual override. Surprised a man with your pitiful observational skills managed to figure that out."

"I'm full of surprises."

"Ah, looks like young Billy didn't survive the process," said Jeremy, staring over where the broken sphere was located. Billy's body was safely hidden out of the group's line of sight. "Pity. So much time and research, lost because you had a boner," said Jeremy, making a _tsk_ noise with his tongue. "At least you won't have to miss him long." Miles seethed and his anger manifested in a black aura, visibly extending from his person.

Behind their masks, the men were shaking, eyes darting in all directions, blood pressure spiking. It was only natural to be afraid of a man standing in front of you, so saturated with blood that it dripping audibly onto the floor where he stood. Miles smiled—basking in the new wave of unsettled nerves that emanated from the crowd like heat waves off asphalt in the summer.

"You know Jer, We're going to enjoy killing you the most," said Miles.

Jeremy laughed, and it was as hollow and soulless as the rest of him. "Fire," he said.

The bullets were deafening. There was so many. They tore through every part of Miles' body, the impact causing him to flinch and stumble backwards. Large caliber, tearing out chunks of flesh. Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard Waylon screaming his name. But soon, it was all background noise. The bullets, Waylon, the hum of the machinery in the room, the buzz of the fluorescent lights and computer fans, Billy's last strangled breaths, all of it. Miles could hear everything, until it was all drowned out by one cacophonous sound. The roar of a rushing tidal wave, followed by desperate screams and the wet sound of flesh being torn apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About as confusing as the ending of the original game, I guess? The Epilogue is coming and though you might not believe me now it's NOT A HORRIBLE ENDING so don't bail. Thanks for reading guys :)


	22. Not Horrible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See, I promised the ending was Not Horrible :)

The day was bleak and rainy, but it suited the day. In the weeks since escaping the asylum, the weather had been abysmally sunny and clear, contrasting sharply with Waylon’s mood. He trudged through the rain with a black, waterproof jacket on as his only protection. Misty rain formed dew drops in his blond hair. He stood alone in a bleak cemetery, staring down at three granite headstones.

He struck a lonely figure, black outlined against a gray sky, solitary in his vigil. His face was annoyed as he stalked back to the car and wrapped loudly against the window with a knuckle.

“You going to at least get out of the car?” asked Waylon, sighing as he leaned against the Ford despite the wetness. “We can’t stay here all day.”

After a few more moments of silence, Waylon sighed and opened the back door to his tiny vehicle. It seemed that his car was the only on the property that day. The only person dim enough choose the first rainy day in a month as their day to visit the cemetery. Waylon pulled out two arrangements of plastic flowers. They weren’t overly large, but the two together was an armful. “This was your idea, you know. To pay respects.”

“I’m aware,” said Miles, slouching down lower in the front passenger seat.

“So get out and help,” said Waylon, struggling to close the car door with both of the bundles in his arms. Miles gave a long suffering sigh before opening the door with more strength than necessary causing it to nearly fly off its steel hinges. He had to pause, clenching his fists for several moments, before he felt calm enough to close the door without causing some type of structural damage to Waylon’s car.

“I hate plastic flowers, they seem fake and insincere,” said Miles as he reached and took both of the arrangements out of Waylon’s grip. They weighed nothing in his arms though they were still unwieldy. Miles stalked out toward the stones, head down against the rain, wearing a new brown, leather jacket and jeans. Not exactly waterproof.

“It’s the rules of the cemetery. No real flower arrangements. The plastic lasts longer, and avoids people seeing a bunch of dead flowers on their loved ones’ graves,” said Waylon.

“God forbid anyone see anything morbid or depressing in a _cemetery_ ,” said Miles, walking at what felt like a normal pace, though Waylon was almost jogging to keep up.

Soon, the two came to a stop in front of three fresh graves. The bodies had been buried for almost a month, but Miles had refused to visit. There was always an excuse between his initial crippling illness, and his very real fear for his safety against Murkoff. Miles spent the better part of a month locked away from all human contact—save one.

“You put them on the wrong graves,” said Waylon as Miles finished setting down the almost identical arrangements in front of the two stones.

“They are exactly alike,” said Miles, fighting to keep annoyance out of his tone. It was not Waylon’s fault. The short temper was his issue to deal with. The depression, the anger, the fear, the sickness, the sobriety—all the changes to his body and life.

“Their names are written on the ribbons,” said Waylon, his voice quiet and patient. “But you’re right, they are otherwise identical.”

Miles sighed, noticing the ribbons for the first time. He would have noticed sooner had he bothered even looking at the flowers. He had left that chore up to Waylon—just like everything else, those days. Miles surveyed the flowers and noticed the pleasant mixture of colors and textures, the plastic smell, the imperfections that caused variations in petal size and color.

“They look nice,” said Miles quietly as he quickly switched the flowers. He stood over the grave with the stone reading “Hope.” It looked strangely out of place in such a bleak environment. Someone would probably see it and think it held some greater message about a future or something beyond the mortal coil. It was just a name. Still, it soothed a large part of him, seeing it there. “I hope this wasn’t all too expensive.”

“It’s alright,” said Waylon, chuckling. “The public donations were generous, considering everything that happened.”

“Still,” said Miles, kneeling down to put a hand on the cold, wet granite. “I know you lost that job you were so excited about, and things are tight right now. And then all the costs of supporting me…”

“You’re going to get back on your feet soon,” said Waylon. He was standing a considerable distance away, but their bodies may as well have been touching considering Miles’ level of awareness. He could detect Waylon’s breathing, his heartbeat, the nervous way he played with the zipper on his jacket, the tension held in his face as he watched Miles kneeling over Billy’s final resting place.

“You don’t need to be so nervous,” said Miles, grumbling without turning around. “I’m not going to make a scene. Throw myself down on the grave. Pull my hair out…”

“I thought you were going to quit doing that,” said Waylon, attempting to make his voice sound irritated though Miles recognized the attempt to mask his fear and discomfort. “It makes me feel weird when you read my mind.”

“I’m not reading your mind,” Miles groaned for the thousandth time. “It’s different than that.” Waylon shivered behind him. Miles sighed. “You couldn’t have gotten even something small for my grave? I look unpopular.”

Waylon gave a snort behind him. “You are unpopular.”

Miles stood up and turned back to look at Waylon, standing there with water dripping from his blond hair and running down the front of his waterproof jacket. Miles had to bite his lip and look away to quell the intense surge of longing. The wind was picking up. Miles could hear it coming down from the mountains in the distance.

“Rain’s getting worse,” said Waylon, teeth chattering slightly when the cold breeze finally reached the pair and caused his wet skin to prickle with goosebumps. Miles bit back a sarcastic remark about pointing out the obvious. It was difficult to think about anything with Waylon so close. Miles was hyper-aware of Waylon’s body heating up under his jacket in reaction to the cold outside. His chattering, broken breaths as he stood trying to keep his feet from sinking into the muddy ground.

“Do you…Could…” Miles struggled to find the words, turning to stare at Waylon. He immediately wished he hadn’t. Waylon looked especially alluring with wet droplets clinging to his eyelashes and his lips parted and shivering. “Please, could you just, wait in the car? I’ll only be a minute.”

Hurt. Of course he would be hurt. Waylon gave a sad smile and a half nod before starting the short walk back to the Ford. Miles frowned. It was not fair to push Waylon away, but there were some things he simply was not ready to share. Once he heard the door close to the car, Miles let out out a long breath he had not realized he was holding. He turned his back to the car and stared down at the three graves.

Mustermann? Rudy would understand. Besides, there was already a large, fancy tombstone the Murkoff Corporation had erected in his hometown in Germany when he had “died” the first time. The pioneer of nanotechnology, buried in a plain grave in a tiny town in Colorado, USA. Resting in peace, despite all the chaos and pain he had caused. Dr. Frankenstein, and the grave next to him, his monster.

Miles had been afraid to face the cold granite and the damp ground—afraid at what would be his own reaction. The reaction of the machines inside of him. But as he stared down at the plot with its plastic flowers catching rain, he felt a strange sense of peace. Content. It was acceptable. Billy was happy.

It wasn’t some otherworldly feeling, angelic hand on his shoulder, voice from beyond. No. Like everything else with the Walrider, it was science. Nothing supernatural.

When the Walrider initiated the protocol to move to a new host, the nanites that entered Miles’ body had originated from Billy’s. Most had been operational for years, and during that time they were always scanning, computing, adapting. Learning. Ultimately, understanding the Walrider had come to Miles much easier than anticipated.

It was a classic case of mad scientists so busy wondering if they _could_ develop something that no one stopped to ask if they _should_. Judging by the depraved depths Murkoff scientist had sank to create the swarm, they would not have stopped even if they had asked. In their rush to create, no one had sat down to clearly define exactly what it would do if they were successful. Then, their demonic code had worked, and a swarm of robots were unleashed with only one protocol: exist.

Rudy was right all along. It was not a god, or a monster--it was a machine. A tool. A hive mind of tiny robots with the ability to learn and adapt, and only one primary function.

Maybe the scientists had underestimated how quickly a swarm of learning robots could adapt? It probably took less than a minute for the newly created baby swarm to come to a few very real conclusions. Namely that it needed a host to exist, and that host needed to be kept alive. Acclimating to a new host cost precious resources so keeping a healthy host as long as possible was preferable to constantly transferring. The swarm woke up inside of Billy and set about keeping the host alive and happy the only way it knew. Something threatens the host? Neutralize.

From the Walrider’s perspective, that protocol had worked very well. As a child, Billy and the Walrider “neutralized” an entire laboratory full of scientists, guards, and assistants.

That little caveat had come as a painful surprise. It was like walking around with one itchy finger always on the trigger of an assault rifle. The smallest thing threatened him--a car not pausing long enough at a crosswalk, a waitress bumping into him in a crowded cafe, a small child tossing a stuffed creature that bounced harmlessly off of Miles’ body—it did not matter. The smallest threat and the Walrider’s initial defenses were triggered. Destroy.

How had Billy been so calm while constantly smothering a murderous impulse? Maybe it was something that got better with time. At least, Miles hoped it was, because it was nothing compared to the urges he felt around Waylon.

Over time, the swarm learned—adapted. And most of what it learned came from Billy. No wonder Wernicke had kept him locked away from the world. By stunting Billy’s social and educational growth, he had also stunted the Walrider’s knowledge and abilities. A good plan, if you threw all consideration for Billy’s well being out the window.

Still, Billy had been happy. Content in his ignorance. He had found things that he really enjoyed in caring for his animals, reading books, and hiking around the mountains. And all of his feelings, thoughts, quirks, fears, desires…they were imprinted on the nanites. The nanites now inhabiting Miles’ body.

As Miles stared down at the wet stones, he felt a feeling of…rightness. It felt too strange to say a machine felt “happy” or “content,” yet those were the first words that crept to his mind. Billy liked this place—or at least, he definitely would have. Miles knew because the nanites that had lived through him for several years reacted positively to the scene. The air was crisp, the rain fresh, the plastic flowers were a pleasant combination of colors, and the shadow of Mount Massive in the distance was familiar and calming. The Walrider was pleased. Billy was pleased.

Miles did not believe in anything as lofty as a “soul” but he did feel that a part of Billy’s personality continued on through the swarm—through him. And that thought soothed the human side of him more than anything else. The Walrider’s personality was Billy’s personality, but it would adapt. Change. Learn. Soon, Miles’ personality may shine through more, but Billy’s would remain, in the background. In Miles’ opinion, something close to a soul lived on. That knowledge helped him heal.

The Walrider practically purred as Miles sat in the rain, staring. He did not feel cold because the nanites caused him to run hot. Though the swarm operated as a hive mind, there were still different feelings from different portions at times while the overall consensus was reached. All the different parts considered the scene and came to the conclusion. Right. This was right.

Miles gave a long exhale and closed his eyes, allowing a small smile to appear on his face. Billy was out of the machine. He was freed from the curse of the Walrider. It was not the best conclusion to their situation—not the ending Miles had wanted. But then again, nothing to do with the swarm and its creators had been fair. And in ways Billy was lucky. There had been nothing of Chris to bury.

Miles took a long look at the third stone. The name “Upshur” was engraved in the same font as the other two. Wernicke had been onto something with the whole ‘faking your death to disappear’ thing. Miles followed his idea after the cleanup of the asylum to ensure no one would come looking for the Walrider--for him. According to Murkoff, the Walrider’s host had expired, and the swarm was lost. Again. Miles sighed and turned to walk back toward the car.

With his enhanced vision, Miles could make out Waylon’s profile in the driver’s seat. Miles had not been away for long, but he could see the windows growing foggy from the warmth within compared to the cold exterior. Waylon looked startled when Miles entered the vehicle, as though he had been lost in thought. Miles slid into the passenger’s seat and buckled up.

It rained the entire way back to Denver. Waylon drove, eyes glued to the road, and Miles avoided looking at his friend.

Another conclusion of the Walrider was the value of having a potential replacement host around. It had only come to the conclusion when Billy met Miles. Once the swarm realized there could be other potential hosts, the idea of a backup seemed like a logical conclusion.

Perhaps having the swarm housed in a boy through his formative years was a bad idea. A horny teenager seemed to have designed the Walrider’s defense mechanism in that department. The moment Billy saw Miles, he wanted to claim him and keep him near. And Miles had felt the exact same feeling—only toward Waylon.

Was it the year long abusive relationship that damaged Waylon enough to become a potential host? Or the trip through the nightmare asylum where he had waded through death, watched a man burnt alive, and withstood torture. It did not really matter. The Walrider wanted Waylon, and Miles had always wanted him.

They arrived at their apartment complex and Miles pulled up his collar and donned dark sunglasses. Probably no one would recognize him, but it was better to be cautious. After a month laying low together, they were leaving—as soon as Miles’ last precautions were ready.

“I really need to get over to your place and clean out the last of the stuff. I was supposed to have turned over the keys already, but they’re giving extra time, compassion since they think you died,” said Waylon as he shut the door behind Miles. The apartment was cluttered with boxes of old stuff Miles had saved. Everything else would be tossed. “I think I might take a shower first.”

Miles looked over Waylon and felt the Walrider’s frustrations and demands. Miles had his own desires to contend with as well consider the way Waylon’s blond hair had dried looking messy and disheveled. They swarm and the man agreed--Waylon looked delicious. Miles’ thoughts were interrupted by a loud knocking on the door.

“Hide, you’re supposed to be dead,” hissed Waylon, walking to the door and glancing through the peephole. The Walrider’s defenses were already triggered, and Miles could feel it reaching out, seeking answers. The person on the other side of the door was large, breathing loudly, humming to himself. Waylon froze and then gave a side-eye glance at Miles. “Uh…”

Eddie. Miles seethed and refused to leave the room. Waylon shook his head and opened the door slowly, sheltering Miles from view.

“Eddie, what are you doing here?” asked Waylon, keeping his tone casual.

“Darling,” said Eddie. Miles knew he would be smiling that predatory smile he favored so much. Waylon’s pulse picked up. Nervous…or aroused? “I got your messages asking for the documents. I had my man fix them up exactly how you specified, and I’m sure you will be quite pleased with their quality. Does this mean you’re willing to speak with me again?”

“Documents? I have no idea what you are even talking about,” said Waylon.

“You texted me, and emailed the details a few days ago? You’re looking for these documents using Upshur’s likeness, correct?” asked Eddie, doubt creeping into his voice.

“Oh…OOOhhh…right…” said Waylon.

“I’ve missed you,” said Eddie.

“I’ve been through alot, Eddie, and I thought I made it pretty clear, I’m not interested in anything else romantic with you. I wish you the best, but…”

“You’ve missed me,” said Eddie and Miles could hear the catch in Waylon’s breathing, and the sound of strong hands gripping his arm. “We are good together. You know it as well as I do. And I know you’re still attracted to me.”

Waylon scoffed and gave a snorting laugh. “You’re delusional. I’m done letting you, or anyone else, push me around. I’m stronger now. You don’t even know me anymore.”

“You can’t make a single decision on your own,” said Eddie a mocking tone infiltrating his voice. “I came into your life and I saved you. No one else would even bother with such a monumental task. Only I can give you that stability again…”

“The hell you can,” said Waylon, his voice rising in volume. “Get out, Eddie.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying…” said Eddie his voice low and menacing.

“I said…”

“Get out,” finished Miles. All noise from the main room stopped as he stepped into view. Tendrils of black fog seemed to emanate from his body as he stood clenching his fists and staring down Eddie Gluskin. “Leave. Now.”

“You…you’re not dead,” said Eddie.

“No, I’m not. Or I am. You know what, let’s not get bogged down in the technicalities,” said Miles, taking a few calm steps into the room. Eddie was still taller, but Miles met his gaze confidently. He could feel the confusion rolling off of Eddie. “Hand over the documents—and leave. Forever. You’re not allowed to ever see Waylon ever again.”

Eddie snorted and, to his credit, he put on a brave face, but Miles’ enhanced senses knew he was nervous. Scared. He wanted to run, but it was not in his nature. Well, it would have to be the hard way, then. “You can’t tell me what to do. I’ll tell the authorities about this, and…”

A tendril extended easily from Miles’ aura, taking shape and slithering around Eddie’s throat as quick as a whip. It tightened just enough that Eddie’s hands flew to the appendage and clawed uselessly against the smooth ropes. The nanites were immovable, even for someone with Eddie’s strength.

“Maybe I wasn’t clear? I’m telling you what to do. You’re never to come into contact with Waylon ever again. If you do anything to sabotage those documents, or try to contact him, or me, ever again, you will die. No one will be able to identify your remains. I will turn your very bones and teeth to dust after the swarm tears you inside out and dumps your organs and blood onto the ground in front of you.”

A sound like a million hornets rose to deafening levels and Miles could feel vibrations under his skin as he fought the Walrider’s initial defense. Why risk it? Neutralize him— _now_. Miles fought it hard, feeling the first trickle of fluid dripping from his nose and the corner of his eyes.

Miles smiled, inky black eyes gleaming, ignoring the black sludge now marring his face. “That was clear enough, I hope?” The tentacles immediately released Eddie and he gasped in relief, hand flying up to rub at his neck.

“Something…something’s wrong with you…”

“Ya think?” asked Miles.

“Waylon, Waylon, darling, you have to get away from that monster, You need to…”

“I don’t see a monster,” said Waylon, calmly glancing over where Miles stood casually, the nanites swarming around his form. “Miles protects me. He takes care of me, and wants what’s best for me. Something you never did, Eddie. Goodbye. I hope you find some help for your issues, and start a new, healthy relationship.”

Eddie looked back and forth between the swarming form of Miles and Waylon’s calm, sympathetic smiling face. “You’re both fucking insane.”

“Thanks for the documents,” said Miles with a pleasant tone and a small wave. Eddie set his shoulders and stalked out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him. Waylon winced at the noise and stood staring for several seconds before he started to shake. Then he snorted. Then he laughed out loud, holding his sides.

“His face,” laughed Waylon. “He was so scared.”

“He should be,” said Miles.

“You’re not scary,” said Waylon, grinning and shaking his head.

“I am,” said Miles, lowering his head as he canted his eyes up to watch Waylon.

“Well, I’m not afraid of you,” said Waylon.

“Maybe you should be.”

“No,” said Waylon, walking until he was within the swarming nanites, reaching out to hold Miles’ hand. “You promised you would never hurt me. I believe you.”

Increased blood flow. Waylon’s heart literally skipped a beat, and Miles heard it, loud and clear. Waylon’s pulse throbbed in Miles’ ears. Sweat on Waylon’s palms where they touched Miles’ cool skin. The Walrider could read his arousal, and it caused Miles’ fierce need to surge anew. It was more difficult to control when the swarm was already agitated from the confrontation with Eddie. Miles gave an irritated groan.

“What’s wrong?” asked Waylon, concern creasing his face.

“You should maybe be afraid of me,” whispered Miles, fighting to keep his voice steady as he focused half of his attention on speaking, and the other half on keeping the Walrider in check. “I…I haven’t been completely honest with you. About the Walrider.” Miles had expected fear, but he sensed nothing. He met Waylon’s eyes.

“At this point I’ve seen it all,” said Waylon, his tone serious. It was true. They both had seen a lifetime’s worth of misery and suffering. They had that in common. “The Walrider doesn’t scare me. _You_ don’t scare me.” Waylon paused to wet his lips before continuing. “I know we said things in the asylum, and we haven’t spoken about it since then. It seemed like you didn’t want to talk about it at all. But, I meant everything I said. I understand if you need time, after all, Billy and Chris just…”

“No,” said Miles, taking a step forward and resting a hand on Waylon’s waist. “I’m not wasting one more day mourning the past. I let my relationship with Chris keep me away from you then, and I won’t let Billy keep us apart now. He wouldn’t have wanted that.” Miles shook his head and reached up to gently move a blond strand behind Waylon’s ear. He did not go into how he could predict Billy’s feelings on the matter.

“I miss Billy. I’m sad that he is gone. I miss Chris. Neither of them deserved what happened, but neither did we. And going forward, I want…I _need_ you. _We_ need you.”

Whatever counter question Waylon had prepared was quickly forgotten when Miles leaned in and pressed their lips together. The air around them seemed to thicken and a soft buzzing sound filled the area, like the soft lull of white noise.

“We need to possess every part of you,” said Miles, pausing for breath before kissing Waylon again. “We never want you out of our sight again. From now on, we’re all in this together.” The air around Miles grew darker as he finished speaking. He gripped Waylon’s hip tighter, leaning in to rub his nose through blond hair.

“You taste…different,” said Waylon.

“Ah. I know,” said Miles, biting his tongue before he could add that he knew from kissing Billy. “It’s a side effect of the Walrider.”

“Is it toxic?” asked Waylon.

Miles opened his mouth to answer, before closing it and tilting his head thoughtfully. He considered it for a second before shrugging and humming out an “I don’t know” noise. Waylon searched his face and Miles could almost see the argument behind those green eyes. Lust versus caution. Lust won.

“Fuck it,” grumbled Waylon before pushing up on his toes and crushing his lips back against Miles.

It felt too good, inhaling Waylon. Tasting him. Feeling him. Miles ran his hands up and down Waylon’s back. He wanted to feel Waylon more. So he did.

New appendages joined Miles’ hands, curling along Waylon’s lower back. Waylon broke from the kiss and leaned his head back, allowing Miles to drag his tongue along the tender, heated flesh of his neck while Waylon gasped enticingly. The Walrider’s touch grew more bold and insistent as cords wrapped around Waylon’s clothed legs and teased his inner thighs. Miles wanted Waylon so badly it made it difficult to convince the Walrider to calm down.

“Wait,” yelped Waylon, attempting to jump back but finding the coils and Miles’ grip holding him in place. “Is that…is that you controlling this? Or…”

“Fifty-fifty,” said Miles before devouring Waylon’s neck anew, sucking purple bites along the pale flesh until Waylon was moaning and pushing his hands against Miles’ chest.

“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with…it…you? This?” Waylon’s voice was breathy, and his expression flustered from a mixture of arousal and nerves.

“Then let me make you comfortable with it,” said Miles. A smoky, black appendage hooked onto the waistband of Waylon’s pants and tugged him violently toward the bedroom.

“Miles,” said Waylon, breathing deeply and licking his lips. “I want _you_.”

“This is me now,” said Miles, pressing forward as the swarm tugged Waylon. The bedroom was close in the small apartment. Everything was packed up, but the bare mattress was still on the bed frame, and would have to be left behind. Miles walked forward as Waylon walked backwards until his knees hit the edge of the mattress. “You will like it. Trust me.”

Waylon looked at the ground, biting his lip, considering the words. When his eyes canted back to Miles he gave the slightest nod. It resounded to Miles like a command backed by the crack of a whip. He immediately lunged forward, pushing Waylon onto the bed in the process and wasting no time in crawling on top of him. Miles paused for a moment to throw his jacket off and pull his own shirt off over his head.

Soft hands started at the top of his pants and slid their way up his stomach and chest, taking time to briefly investigate each dimpled scar decorating Miles’ chest like white star bursts. Miles regretted that he had ever felt self conscious about the scar on his eyebrow. It was nothing compared to the mess after the Walrider had healed him in the underground laboratory. There was no disgust in Waylon’s expression. He leaned forward and kissed a scar on Miles’ shoulder with so much tenderness that Miles had to look away.

Miles could not remember a time when he was free of scars. He carried them everywhere. The physical scars, and the emotional ones. His parents, his childhood, his relationship with Chris, his failures with his career and love life. But Waylon knew them all—had seen them all, and still wanted him.

Miles leaned down, pressing Waylon into the mattress as he kissed him again, tongue dipping into his welcoming mouth, coaxing out moans and sighs. Their mouths worked against one another until Waylon’s body was writhing subconsciously beneath him. Soon, Waylon’s pants and were being unbuttoned by the phantom limbs as Miles pushed Waylon’s shirt up and over his head.

Miles was on his knees, straddling Waylon as he looked down, watching the swarm’s useful appendages pull Waylon’s pants and briefs out of the way. Waylon stared up, green eyes blown, face flushed, lips parted, and Miles had the strongest wave of _deja vu_. It was like being back in the video. His groin throbbed at the memory. Months of classic conditioning left him completely helpless to resist running his fingertips over skin he had seen so many times, but touched only once.

The gasps and squeaks as Miles leaned in to lick a tan nipple reminded him of the video in surround sound. He wanted to hear all of those noises again, but live and in person. The Walrider knew how to make that happen. Waylon gave an adorable yelp when the dark strands hooked around his bare thighs and pushed them wide.

A lazy, pleased grin spread across Miles face as he sat up and rested on his heels, looking down at a spread and nervous Waylon. The fear only served to heighten his senses and quicken his pulse that much more. They could definitely use that to their advantage.

Miles slid his fingers up Waylon’s thighs, brushing the tentacles as he did. There was sensation there, though different than actually physically touching. It was like a vivid memory. Miles could recall every detail, even though he had no actual sensation from touch. But the brain is the biggest erogenous zone on the human body, and having information from his own experiences, and the Walrider, made for sensory overload.

Miles avoided touching Waylon where he most wanted. Even without his enhanced senses, it was clear what Waylon was requesting. The way he stared down his body, watching, and pushing his hips up. Still, Miles denied him, stroking his hips, thighs, lower abdomen, anywhere but there. While Waylon huffed in frustration, a small tentacle made its first tentative traces of his creased hole.

“Miles,” gasped Waylon, squirming away from the probing appendage. He pushed up on his elbows in a sudden fright. The tentacle retreated as Miles bent down to kiss Waylon’s temple. “Is it safe to let the swarm inside of me like this?” asked Waylon.

“Probably not,” Miles whispered hotly against Waylon’s ear causing him to whimper adorably, “but it feels _so_ good.” He closed his teeth around his lobe without biting down. Waylon squirmed but the tendrils around his thighs kept him from getting far. “You’re going to like it.” The second time the tentacle pushed tentatively they found Waylon much more relaxed and accommodating.

Waylon threw his head back on the mattress and moaned as a tentacle entered. Miles licked hungrily at the exposed skin of Waylon’s neck, scraping his teeth across flesh and sucking more purple bruises. There was no need to hold back this time. He could mark every part of Waylon. He was theirs for the taking.

The Walrider’s buzzing was like a purr of contentment as it experimentally pushed inside. Miles could feel every reaction from Waylon’s body as he was probed. The tentacle thickened and Waylon arched his back. It slithered and rubbed against his insides, and Waylon moaned. And then it felt with small strokes, judging each inhale, each noise, until it brushed against a spot that caused Waylon to jump.

Miles smiled, and the Walrider felt decidedly pleased with itself. Miles watched Waylon’s face carefully as they continued to push careful pressure against the places inside that left him gasping and moaning. Green eyes went wide as he stared up at Miles, but each attempt to form a coherent word devolved into animalistic moans.

Waylon could not keep his body still, and Miles enjoyed watching it with his enhanced vision. He could see every bead of sweat, and even tell the difference in the heat radiating from the skin of Waylon’s face compared to the intense heat originating in his groin. It was as fascinating as it was erotic.

“Miles,” Waylon finally managed to pant out, lithe arms reaching out to encircle his neck. “I don’t…” he bit his lip, but was unable to completely stop a chest deep groan. “I want it to be _you_ inside of me.”

“Mmm,” said Miles, smiling down with his inky black eyes. “Soon. Right now, I just want to watch you. I spent so many nights admiring the way you look when you come. I want to watch it, in person, and memorize the things that don’t translate to video. The way you sound, feel, move…” The sentence was punctuated with a particularly vigorous stroke inside of Waylon that left him gurgling incoherently.

“Fuck,” panted Waylon. “Are you reading my mind, right now?”

“We can tell what you like,” said Miles, grinning. “Watching your pleasure is the most erotic thing we’ve ever seen.” It was as true that time as it was when Billy had muttered it weeks before.

Waylon moaned and seemed to abandon whatever resistance he had left. His hips rose off the mattress as he happily pushed back against the intruding appendage. Miles watched as a thick stream of liquid dripped down Waylon’s ruddy cock. He licked his lips, and adjusted himself on the mattress until he could crane his neck down and slide his tongue along Waylon’s length, tasting the salty precome.

Waylon’s hands flew to Miles’ hair, clutching the unruly brown strands, but Miles refused to budge. He continued to swirl his tongue across Waylon’s weeping tip and tongued teasingly along his sensitive underside.

“Miles, no, I’ll come…”

“That’s the idea,” growled Miles, ignoring the insistent tugging, and wrapping his lips around Waylon’s head, sucking loudly. The new sensation caused Waylon’s hips to fly off the bed and his nails to dig into Miles’ scalp causing him to pull away and hiss. Immediately, coils encircled Waylon’s wrists and jerked his hands over his head, effectively binding him.

“Wha…” Waylon looked around in confusion, eyes unfocused, as though unable to understand what had just happened. The return of Miles’ mouth to his cock stole his attention back to more pressing matters. Miles craned his neck to stare up Waylon’s body as his mouth moved up and down lazily. He pulled away with a lewd slurp to stare down at Waylon’s stretched hole where the dark tentacle was undulating.

It was difficult to tell how it was moving due to the strange nature of the object. Miles knew it was stretching Waylon, gently and slowly, having finally reached a point of relaxation where Miles could comfortably dive in. The nanites even had a way to self lubricate that was extended to assist with making Waylon slippery and relaxed. Miles stared, moaning softly as he watched the edges of Waylon’s hole, twitching and clenching around the foreign appendage.

“Come,” said Miles watching Waylon’s body as he lost the fight to prolong his pleasure. Waylon groaned and Miles quickly engulfed his cock again, taking him to the back of his throat. He held still when Waylon began to fuck upwards, wantonly taking what he needed. Miles pulled away, grabbing Waylon’s slippery shaft in his hand and pumping it as he watched Waylon’s climax.

Every inch of Waylon’s skin was covered with a sheen of sweat and turned bright pink as he finished. His thighs tensed and balls jumped when he began to release. The first strand flew far, hitting Miles on the cheek before he could think to cover the head, catching the next few healthy spurts of thick seed. He watched in fascination as Waylon’s opening pulsed around the Walrider, and streams of white continued to dribble down his shaft.

For a brief moment, Miles considered being jealous of the Walrider for being responsible for such a strong reaction. Then he realized it was as useless as being jealous of a dildo. It was just a tool, after all. Miles was the one using it.

Waylon was left panting, arms still held over his head. The tentacle impaling Waylon shrank and slithered away. Miles wasted no time. He practically leapt off the bed and quickly undid his own jeans, stepping out of them and then pushing his boxers off in a hurry.

He positioned himself between Waylon’s legs. His own erection had grown achingly hard while being completely ignored in favor of Waylon’s pleasure. Miles could not wait a second longer. He lined up the head with Waylon’s hole and pushed forward.

A tired howl tore through Waylon as Miles filled him with one smooth thrust. Miles paused once he was buried inside and leaned down to kiss Waylon’s sweaty cheek. “You’re alright?”

Waylon gave some unintelligible response. Miles chuckled. He would know if Waylon was in any actual pain. And he could take it away. Miles pushed Waylon’s legs up, spreading him further and pushing him into the mattress. He looked down at Waylon’s foot, decorated with white scars similar to his own chest. The Walrider had healed Waylon the same as it had healed Miles. Still, Waylon seemed in need of some breathing time. Miles began to grind into him, slowly, kissing Waylon’s sweaty face and giving him time to recover.

“I watched you for so long,” whispered Miles, lips moving softly against Waylon’s own. “I felt like a filthy pervert. You have no idea how much it hurt me to delete that file.”

“It’s still…It’s still in my email,” Waylon managed to pant out, green eyes cracking open as he smiled up at Miles. “You can watch it whenever you want.”

“That’s good news,” said Miles, chuckling to himself. “Though I rather prefer the real thing to the recording.”

“Is it as good as you remember, then?”

“Better,” said Miles, pushing Waylon’s hair out of his face as he pulled back enough to look in his tired eyes. “This time I’m able to tell you that I love you, and know that it’s true, without doubting myself, or feeling the need to keep it a secret.”

Waylon craned his neck up from the mattress, made more difficult with his hands restrained. His lips met Miles’ in a hot, needy kiss. “I love you too Miles.”

Miles groaned, pushing into Waylon with strong, slow thrusts. “Say it again.”

“I love you,” said Waylon, whimpering when Miles’ response was to push in harder, faster. Miles covered Waylon with his body, kissing his sweaty face, feeling his hot insides tightening, squeezing him. Miles was lost until he felt a new sensation stroking around his puckered hole. Miles stifled a laugh.

“What?” asked Waylon, opening his eyes and struggling to breathe.

“N-nothing,” said Miles, grinning. “I’m just…really happy.”

“Me too,” said Waylon, smiling until Miles began a new, harsher pace, each movement pushing Waylon slightly back on the mattress.

Miles closed his eyes and let his head fall back as he felt the Walrider’s tentacle breach his entrance. It was not the same as being touched by someone else—it was more like touching himself. Still, touching himself was not bad. The feeling of the appendage thickening and starting to slither and push inside of him had Miles groaning as he slid his hands under Waylon’s ass and squeezed.

Miles pushed up to get a better angle he saw that Waylon was hard again. His cock had left a slick smear of moisture on Miles’ stomach where he had been on top of him. Miles grinned devilishly at Waylon. He could live happily seeing Waylon like that every day. To his surprise, Waylon began to buck his hips up from the bed, meeting Miles’ enthusiastic thrusts.

The tentacle plunging into his ass, combined with Waylon responding anew to his onslaught left Miles teetering on the edge of his own climax. He clenched at Waylon’s body as he rut against him, chin hitting his chest. The sensory overload was finally taking its toll. Within a moment, Miles jolted, and his movements became erratic as he cried out, erupting inside of Waylon.

His hot seed eased his continued movements, leaking out around his cock as he milked out the last of his orgasm. He could feel Waylon’s body spasming around him, and Miles grinned as the Walrider’s helpful tentacles released Waylon’s wrists and new ones appeared to slither their way around his erection. Miles stayed inside as long as possible while Waylon thrashed under him, whining piteously as the Walrider drew out another orgasm from his already exhausted body.

Miles finally withdrew and the Walrider’s tentacles all vanished in a strange mist. He stared down at the raw, pink hole dripping with his handiwork and smiled, appreciatively. He turned to find something to use as a rag, and bumped head first directly into the swarm’s humanoid manifestation.

“Whoa, hey,” said Miles, rather confused. He had not had any further need of the Walrider right then, and it definitely knew it…and yet there it stood. “Um, thank you. That was…”

“Fucking fantastic,” said Waylon from the mattress, mostly mumbling in his tired, post coital haze.

“What he said,” said Miles, grinning as he brought his face closer to what could be considered the Walrider’s neck. He brushed his cheek affectionately against the swarm and found it solid, as usual, and it purred contentedly at Miles’ gesture. By the time Miles opened his eyes, the swarm was disintegrating back to its natural form as individual microscopic robots.

Miles had the distinct feeling that the parts that were Billy were excited to have finally experienced actual sex between two people. It made Miles sad to wonder what maybe could have been, had Billy lived. Maybe they really would have all lived happily ever after. But Miles would have to be content with this.

And it wasn’t horrible. No, Miles had seen horrible. This wasn’t it.

After Miles finished cleaning up Waylon with some disposable kitchen towels, Waylon pulled him down onto the mattress and snuggled close against his chest. “Can’t we just stay here?” asked Waylon, whimpering

“Are you trying to say you want more?” asked Miles, grinning. Waylon only groaned.

“Ugh, Miles, you’re a machine…”

“Part machine. I’m mostly human…”

“You’re all impossible,” said Waylon.

“You love me,” said Miles.

Waylon just shook his head and snorted, kissing Miles affectionately on the cheek. “From the moment I met you.”

“We’ve lingered long enough,” said Miles, forcing himself to pull away from where Waylon was clinging to him. He would have stayed forever, if he could. “We won’t let anything happen to you. But we will all be happier once we’re away from Murkoff, in our own place. I’ll get a job, you can get a job…things will work out.”

Despite the exertion, Miles had no trouble carrying down the last boxes. They were heavy, but not for the swarm. The Jeep was completely filled with the necessities. The rest was expendable. The documents were in order—Eddie had delivered. At least he was good for something.

No sooner were they on the road than Waylon fell asleep with his head lolling against the window. The Walrider kept the car on the road. Miles was able to watch Waylon sleep, amazed that after all the hell they had experienced, he might actually get out with some small semblance of happiness. He pulled his eyes away and realized they’d traveled a long distance down the highway without him realizing it. Soon they would arrive at their new home and start a new life—together. All three of them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, it takes a lot to make me blush these days, and that epilogue definitely did it so, sorry about that. The tentacle sex got a little out of hand. I suppose that's my take on the Walrider. Assuming it didn't kill Miles and take over, it wouldn't really talk or have thoughts it would just kinda, computer, and operate on a really basic level, while learning and adapting, so it would keep some traits from Billy? And learn some from Miles? Oh, did you like that self lubricating bit? I know, I'm a ridiculous author.
> 
> So this story is officially my longest Outlast story. I really want to write a tumblr post about this one like I did for my last work because there is SO MUCH I wanted to say along the way. You see, the story started as a roleplay with Painty where Eddie wasn't abusive, and Billy and Miles lived in the end and started a really awkwardly adorable relationship. And I liked it so much I wrote them their own awkward romance here. As I was writing it though, I realized Billy wasn't gonna make it. That didn't make people happy. Then as I was posting it, I started falling more and more in love with Billy. And I committed the cardinal sin of trying desperately to save my darling. First, I thought he could survive with Miles as new host. But that meant Waylon had a pretty crap ending. So I wrote a really long and complicated redemption arc for Eddie. Yeah, he went to the asylum with them. It was unintentionally hilarious and I loved it. Except it kinda took away from the original ending and vision of it being a love story for Waylon and Miles. Chapter 1 starts setting it up, he's always loved Waylon, he's lusting after him, and to change half way through made all that Waylon stuff become some red herring instead of the intended foreshadowing? Anyways, I'm rambling. This story took longer than necessary because I rewrote the middle about five times. Eventually I tried to just CUT like, 20k words and get it done quick. In the end, I am pleased that I stuck to the original vision, and I made it as long as it needed to be. This is legit the one thing I have written that I am most proud of. So thanks for reading.
> 
> Special Thanks to the peeps that kept me company while this was a rather unloved work in process: NebulaViburnum, your comments always made me think so much about what I was writing and I really enjoyed them. Morbida, I was happy that you gave this weird fic a shot and enjoyed it even though it wasn't EdWay. Xyzxx my cheerleader thanks for cheering me on in the beginning, and thelovearesick I know you only read it recently but it made me really happy that you liked it. And thanks to everyone else who left comments because they meant so much to me.
> 
> And of course, Painty, thank you for allowing me to rip out parts of our story to create this work. Your input on the plot and characterization were so crucial to forming this story and glasses Billy with his streaky hair was all you man.


End file.
